Compost Studios

When my son asked for a hamster last spring, I told him no, no, and no. No rodents in the house. No way was I co-habitating with a nasty, poop-producing, salmonella-carrying, gnawing nocturnal rodent. It had taken mankind millenniums to finally get the rats out of the houses—only to reach the “modern” age where we domesticate vermin and call them pets.

But my son, Mr. A, is nothing if not persistent and persuasive, and he kept pinging us on the hamster until I thought my brain would dissolve and run out my ears. And his father, aka St. Francis of Tervuren, is as soft on animals as he is on plants. I could tell he liked the idea of a pink-tailed, beady-eyed, whisker-twitching fur ball sharing our domestic bliss.

Why me? I should have married a metrosexual—a guy who could give grooming tips, style my hair, and help me find pants that minimize my ass. What am I doing with these spider-saving, plant-loving, pro-life in all forms Greenies? Gah! I’m surprised they let me use disinfectants in the bathrooms. Their next crusade will be to save the poor defenseless E. coli and flu viruses from the Lysol! Freaks!

Seeing as the Greenies had me outnumbered, we ended up getting a hamster. I have no idea what this is. The hamster’s cedar bedding and food found its way into every room of the house, and my son’s habit of letting it run around on the carpet had me screeching, “GET THAT RODENT OFF MY RUG!” and issuing dire warnings, “You’re going to kill that hamster with kindness. Put him in his cage. NOW!”

Well my son didn’t kill that hamster with kindness, his sister did—with her big, honking, Stride Rite extra-wide foot of death. Mr. A had been letting his hamster run around on the floor and E-Grrrl stepped on him. In an instant I had wailing, sobbing children and a shuddering rodent taking his final death gasps in my hand. It was awful.

Where was St. Francis of Tervuren during this family tragedy? England! Lucky me. I got to handle the dead vermin and funeral arrangements all by myself. We buried the hamster in the backyard in a metal tin lined with a doll blanket. Lots of shoulder-shaking sobs and my lame attempts to compose a Prayer on the Death of a Hamster. Mr. A made a cross out of sticks to mark the grave. The hamster had survived in our home all of three weeks—and no sooner was the dirt patted down on the grave did Mr. A request a replacement.

I dug in my heels. No, no, and no! Hamsters were too fragile to be handled by my kids. Besides “No rodents in the house!” Mr. A’s cavalier attitude toward letting his hamster run around had proved my point. Plus I was tired of sweeping up seed and bedding and cleaning everything the hamster touched.

But while I may not care about rodents, I love my son. Watching him grieve over this hamster rubbed a tender spot on my heart. St. Francis of Tervuren, that clever opportunist, wormed right into the soft spot and suggested maybe we could try again after a month or so and give Mr. A a new hamster for his birthday.

And so we did. Sigh.

To his credit, Mr. A was very careful with Lefty, cleaned his cage without fussing, and played with him every day. I still had hamster bedding and hamster shit showing up in odd places, but Mr. A was in heaven. He carried Lefty around in his sweatshirt pocket, made him toys, bathed him, gave presentations to his class and to his Scout troop on hamsters, and used his camera to take pictures of him in cute poses. For Christmas Santa brought Mr. A a new cage for Lefty.

But yesterday, Mr. A faltered. We were on our way out the door to catch a bus. I told Mr. A, who was carrying Lefty around, to put him in his cage and go get his socks on so we could scoot. Apparently, Mr. A decided to put his socks on first, put Lefty down on the bed, and then he forgot about him.

We were gone for hours and when we arrived home in the late afternoon, Mr. A went to check on Lefty. When he saw the cage was empty, crying and finger-pointing ensued, with Mr. A doing what comes naturally—trying to blame his sister. Basically I told him to shut his pie hole and start searching.

I looked downstairs while Mr. A and E-Grrrl looked upstairs. Unbeknownst to me, they were pulling apart every box in the storage room, turning the craft area upside down, tossing pillows off the bed and onto the floor, and spreading hamster food all over the floor in every room to lure Lefty out of hiding. Good Lord. When I went upstairs to insist they go to bed, I saw the damage they had done. I was up until midnight hamster hunting, sweeping up seeds, and trying to clean up the storage room.

Where was St. Francis of Tervuren during all this? Out of the freakin country, that’s where! Same place he was when Alfalfa, the first hamster, met his untimely end and when Peeper and Popper, Mr. A’s pet frogs, died of heat exhaustion in the terrarium. St Francis brings the pets into the house, but I get to carry them out feet-first and take my kids through the four-step grieving process.

So this morning I get up, and there’s still no sign of Lefty. Mr. A prefers lying on the sofa wondering where Lefty could be to actually getting off the sofa and looking for Lefty. His sleep-deprived mother is not happy. And when mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. I tell him and E-Grrrl to start cleaning because their Dad is coming home tomorrow and will expect a clean house. In the process of cleaning, we should find Lefty.

E-Grrrl diligently works on her room and Mr. A sporadically searches for Lefty but does no real cleaning. He’s much better at pulling everything out of a closet, bookshelf, or cabinet and leaving it there. I toil away in his room for hours, determined to cut the clutter and get things straight. The more the kids search for Lefty, the messier the house gets. Mama ain’t happy.

Finally I send him and E-Grrrl upstairs to watch a movie so they’ll be out of my way and I can make some real progress. I’m in E-Grrrl’s room surveying the disaster that is her dresser top when I here scratching. I listen, trying to figure out where it’s coming from. I get down on all fours and look under her dresser but nothing is there.

I cock my head and listen again. Sounds like it’s coming from her trunk! How is that possible! I lift the lid on the closed trunk and get slapped in the face with the nasty rat smell. Smells like the college psychology lab. Whew. I know Lefty is in there. He had apparently climbed up the back side of the trunk and entered into it through the large air holes drilled there by the safety-conscious St. Francis of Tervuren. Those air holes are close to the trunk lid, a good two feet up. That rat is an acrobat.

I call Mr. A and tell him I’ve found Lefty. He bounds into the room with a big smile on his face and begins digging in the trunk until he sees dark beady eyes peering out at him. His whole face lights up.

Is V-Grrrl the non-Greenie, rodent-hating, spider-squishing bitch happy? Not really. She’s looking at that trunk full of linens and thinking how long it’s going to take her to wash all of them because her energy- efficient, environmentally-friendly, water-conserving European washer takes more than TWO HOURS to do a freakin load. Grrrr.

I start pulling the linens and blankets out and notice there are bits of fluff coming up with them. I get to the bottom of the trunk and see the enormous pee stain on its bottom as well as a pile of shit that couldn’t possibly have been produced by such a small animal in a 30 hour period. Sheesh. I tell Andrew to get the disinfectant because he’s removing the poop and scrubbing out that trunk himself.

But that pile of shit wasn’t the worst of it. Oh no. The worst shit is yet to come. Remember the bits of fluff? Those were from the only articles of clothing my late mother ever crocheted for me: A beautiful fringed poncho that I adored and wore all through elementary school and two two hand-crocheted children’s sweaters that I loved and that little E-Grrrl, who never met my mother, had sometimes worn.

Not only had Lefty gnawed big holes in those items, he’d also tasted a baby quilt and chewed holes in E-Grrrl’s sheets. Grrr.

My mother, Lord rest her soul, was a Greenie but had no tolerance for animals of any kind in the house. I can only imagine what she thinks of pet vermin shredding the items she’d made with love for her youngest daughter that had been passed on to her youngest granddaughter. I can hear her cursing in Italian from here.

All I can say is that Lefty better start praying. Big Lou in the Great Beyond was known for giving any creatures that violated her domain and the cleanliness of her home “the business.” I’m sure she’s taking a hit out on Lefty, and even St. Francis won’t be able to save him now. His days are numbered. He better behave. He better beg forgiveness. You don’t cross Big Lou, especially when the ground in the backyard pet cemetery will be thawing soon.

March 20, 2006