Yes, my daughter is 23 years old and still adores small animals. I think it’s because her dad and I never got her a pony when she was little.
This will be the third hamster she has owned since she was about 11. Let’s just hope that this will not the third hamster whose cage she will avoid cleaning. She doesn’t have a good track record in that department.
So DD plopped the small box containing our new room-mate on my desk where I was happily continuing my ongoing obsession of watching downloaded episodes Buffy the Vampire Slayer on my laptop.
“Watch her for a sec, Mom,” she called out cheerily. “I’m just going to finish fixing up her cage.”
I paused Buffy and peered into the box. The tiny hamster was scratching furiously at one corner of it, but looked up at me curiously. I carefully tipped the box so the hamster would slide gently into my cupped hand. The hamster was having none of this and tried to scramble quickly to the upended side of the box. However, gravity won out, and she soon slipped into my hand.
Then she pooed in my hand.
Then she pooed again.
In total, she pooed six times. There were six wee hamster turds in my hand. It would not be an exaggeration to say that the poor thing was slightly stressed.
I cuddled her (after dumping the poo, of course) and attempted to stroke her a little. I thought I might sing to her, but then I thought that we really didn’t know each other very well yet, so I had no idea what kind of songs she liked. So I just spoke softly to her, telling her how pretty she was and how much DD was going to love her and that I hoped she would like her new home and that she would soon have a nice name.
Then she bit me on a finger, hard enough to draw blood. It hurt like hell.
I think a good name for her might be Angel.
That would be the name of the vampire in Buffy.