Dear Celia – Mommy and Daddy have been a bit preoccupied lately and, well, we forgot about the hamster. Although we’re both fairly sure we checked on her in the last few days, when I went in to check on her today, well, she was just flat out gone. The cage door was opened and she had escaped the 3-weeks worth of little hamster poos that were strewn around like clothes hastily removed after too much beer and not enough good lighting. Someday you can tell the therapist that I said that, it will explain a lot. More than just telling him that the hamster died while you were at camp.
LUCKILY, as well written as this letter was in my head, I don’t actually need to write it. For the life of me, I can’t imagine how she got the cage door open, but I guess she did. I looked everywhere for her, and didn’t see her anywhere, so I was pretty sad, and afraid that I was going to have to write you this horrible letter saying that I had lost her. So, just to be safe, I decided to go through every nook and cranny of your room, and figured I may as well clean out and throw stuff away while I was at it. (Lil one, we have to talk about the amount of stuff you save, just in case it’s early warning signs for being one of those hoarders who saves everything including used tissues and cat poop.)
Anyway, I grabbed your orange trash can, and it made a strange sound. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve never heard your trash can make noise before. So I pulled out the bag, and, well, you can guess what I saw. A little Oreo sitting there looking at me. CRAZY! All I can guess is that after she broke out, she jumped down to the chair, then jumped down from the chair and landed in your trash can. That must have been a rude awakening, thinking she was escaping, only to land in the plastic hammock of death that is an old grocery bag slung in a child’s trash can. She chewed her way through the bag and then couldn’t get out of the trash can because it is too tall and there’s nothing to climb on.
Which made me think it was the perfect place to leave her while I cleaned the cage. (And remembered why I make you clean her cage. I thought I was teaching you responsibility, turns out it’s just nasty, and I’m kind of lazy.) I mean, she couldn’t get out, so she’s safe there, once I made sure the cat wasn’t in the room. I threw some food in there for her and held the water bottle in for her. I have to admit, that was cute. She just upped on her hind legs and started drinking, looking up at me with her little hamster hands clasped in the prayer position. I liked that very much. God to the rodents, that’s me.
So, I cleaned her cage and put her back, in and I don’t think she’ll be doing any more adventures for a day or two. I think she’s happy just to be home.
And I’m happy that I can check this off the list of possible reasons that you’ll be going to therapy. As of today, the hamster is still alive.
But damn do I miss you. This probably all would have happened even if you had been here, but you would have been laughing so hard. I love it when you laugh. You laugh a lot.
Maybe you won’t need therapy later. I didn’t learn to laugh until last year sometime. You are so far ahead of the game.
I’m glad I didn’t kill your hamster.
I love you baby girl!