Hammy's lament

So a few months ago, my cousin Caitlin got a hamster. And oh, she loved that hamster. And so did her mom, my aunt. They called to update us on every twitch of the little fellow's whiskers. "He stood up on his hind legs! He washed his little hands and then he used them to clean his face!" They got him a deluxe cage and one of those free-range hamster balls. They named him Hammy. They loved him so.

And then, this weekend, the night before my great-uncle's funeral, they showed up at a family dinner bleary eyed. It appeared Hammy had taken a sudden turn for the worst. He was lying on his side, his eyes closed. His breathing was irregular. He wasn't looking good.

Of course. Because the death of a real, live family member was not enough for one twelve-year-old in one weekend. The hamster had to go, too, just so she could understand the shittiness and finality of death on a micro/macro scale. A sucker punch of pure ass direct straight from the Universe.

We held out hope. Perhaps Hammy had partaken too liberally of his salt block and had a digestive upset that would pass? But the next day, my aunt L. called to tell us Hammy had died. You could hear Caitlin weeping in the background. My aunt is a single mom, and couldn't bear the thought of disposing of her beloved furry friend by herself.

So James volunteered.

He drove over to their house and returned a little while later. "Where is the hamster?" we asked. "In my pocket," he said. When we looked at him, aghast, he said, "In a TUPPERWARE, OH MY GOD." Then he went out back with his headphones on, and dug a grave in a patch of ivy near the lake. During the Super Bowl. In a misting rain (of course).

He worked neatly and efficiently. I know, because I watched from the deck. And while I was watching, I thought about how, when I was a little girl, I used to stand in front of my bedroom mirror and pretend to smoke cigarettes (O, the glamour!) and imagine I was 30 and married. I would tell my reflection, a stand-in for my sophisticated, grown-up friends, in a deep throaty voice, interesting facts about the man who was my husband. "My husband is a millionaire," I'd say. "My husband is in Russia working for the CIA." (Obvs I was not very discreet.) "My husband is Joshua Jackson. You might remember him from such films as The Mighty Ducks and D2: The Mighty Ducks."

"My husband is burying a hamster," I said to myself just then.

Then I went inside because, DUH, raining.

Later, Caitlin came over to view the resting place and was in better spirits. She was already talking about her campaign to convince her mom to get a replacement hamster. She had a bag of dark-chocolate covered pretzels, which she gave to James.

"These are for you," she said.

"Thank you for burying my hamster is what I mean to say," she clarified.


You're the best kind of husband, James. That's what I mean to say.