What Your Hamster Won't Tell You

Last night, I cried myself to sleep, and it was all the hamster's fault.

Mike and I bought a hamster--the wheel, the rodent, the 10-gallon aquarium tank, the works. It's fairly large, entirely adorable, and maddeningly nocturnal. We named it Pisco, after the native, national hard liquor of Peru. (Which packs a mighty punch at 12,000 feet above sea level; let me tell you.

The first night we had him, it took me forever to get him out of the cage, and he wriggled out of my hand when I picked him up, flipping backwards towards the back of the tank, and catching himself (no lie) on the top of the tank with his front two legs. For a terrifying moment, he hung there. I finally scooped him up,and Mike asked me what all the fuss was about over there.

"Nothing! We're fine. What? We're fine. Gosh...."

The image of the terrified hamster haunted me for the rest of the night.

I held my hand in the cage last night for fifteen minutes, trying to work up the nerve to hold him without snatching him up incorrectly. I want to be on the hamster's side--its friend!--and I want it to like me. I want to be liked. I want to make the hamster happy. I want to be affirmed!

"It's okay, little guy. I know Mike's not home, but I'm okay, too. Come here. Like me. Play with me. Love me. Approve of me. Affirm my existence."

I dropped it. After all that, when it finally got into my hands, they were shaking uncontrollable with trepidation and utter childish excitement that it was touching me. From about waist-high it fell. It froze for a moment, then started to crawl around. I put it back in the cage, breathless.

Immediately, I broke into sobs. I felt like a failure. I knew Mike would be disappointed. I'd betrayed the hamster's trust. I ran into the bedroom crying, and threw myself under the covers. I felt so terrible. I kept imagining its fear when it fell, how I'd broken its trust and almost killed it.

Well, clearly the hamster is bringing out my true, dark self. The fuzzy little ball of fur that can't open its eyes for ten minutes after it awakes reveals to me my insecurities, my fears, my need for affirmation. The shaking whiskers and noise remind me of just how fragile I still am. I went to sleep with these thoughts.

This morning, Michael got the hamster out for me in the mornings, when it's tired and slow from a night of running. He held it for me, coaxed it to like me, and let me play with it some, subtly keeping his hands ready to catch it if necessary.

"It's okay," he said sweetly, and Pisco and I both nodded fiercely.