After a recent bike theft incident traumatised my lady, some sort of ferocious, property protecting mammal was definitely on the cards. Something with nasty, big, pointy teeth.
So we got a hamster. Mostly to make my daughter very, very happy. He’s called Hamish (she’s picked the name before she even asked for it), and an excellent Indo-Scots name it is too. We rescued him from a gloomy basement, though to be honest it was less traumatic than we expected. Not RSPCA specs, perhaps, but not a horror either.
He’s a boy, probably. Unless he isn’t. We’ll find out soon enough, I suspect.
At the moment, he’s spending most of his time looking baffled at the sudden change in his environment, and trying to work out what things in his cage are actually for. I thought the little house full of bedding was pretty self-explanatory, but he has other ideas, and has taken to sleeping under his food bowl.
I’ll probably leave it a week or so before I try to teach him any new tricks. You know, like fetch, and play dead.
Steal my lady’s bike will you, thieves? Not only will I have my guard hamster savage your toes, but you’ll probably be very embarrassed about the whole thing as well.
That’ll learn you.