Roxy’s successor
As I write this, Roxy, my children’s pet hamster, is spinning happily in her wheel, with nary a care in the world. Unfortunately, it’s not the same Roxy who went missing four weeks ago. That hamster still hasn’t materialised after I foolishly left her cage door open one night. This is Roxy Mark II, no doubt the first of many replacements over the coming year — all named ‘Roxy’ at my children’s insistence.
Caroline and I debated whether to get another hamster after the trauma caused by the first one’s disappearance. ‘I feel like I’ve lost a sister,’ said Sasha, my eight-year-old daughter. But the clincher was the cost of the cage — £65 smackeroos! The thought of wasting all that money was too much to bear.
So last Saturday we returned to the pet shop en famille to buy a second hamster. Caroline refused point-blank to go in on the grounds that the owner might recognise her. Apparently, on her previous visit he’d lectured her for half an hour on the dos and don’ts of hamster ownership. He was particularly emphatic about not letting Roxy escape, given how low her survival prospects would be. Caroline was convinced that if she tried to buy a second hamster she’d be subjected to a forensic cross-examination about the fate of the first. In all likelihood, Mr Sanctimonious would refuse to sell her another one.
We came up with a plan which was that she’d pull up outside in our VW Transporter, drop me off, then park 100 yards up the street. If we were quick about it, the man in the pet shop wouldn’t spot her. Unfortunately, there was a flaw in this otherwise perfect scheme: the children. All four of them insisted on coming into the shop with me. I agreed, but only on the condition that they made no mention of Roxy. ‘If you let slip that we lost her, he won’t sell us another one,’ I said. They all nodded their heads vigorously.
The drop-off went okay and, when I told the owner I wanted to buy a hamster, he placidly set off towards the relevant section. He showed no signs of recognising any of my children. So far, so good. However, after about 30 seconds, Ludo, my six-year-old son, could contain himself no longer.
‘We lost our last hamster,’ he said.
‘Oh really?’ said the man, stopping in his tracks and wheeling round. ‘What happened?’
‘It was daddy’s fault,’ said Ludo. ‘He left her cage open.’
I quickly explained that I was completely mortified by the whole experience — worst thing I’d ever done — and had launched a hard-target search of every gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse and doghouse in the surrounding area. Nothing. Could he find it in his heart to sell me another? I promised to be much more careful this time.
He scrutinised me with a look of Javert-like concentration and, after what seemed like an eternity, eventually agreed. But he insisted on taking me through the checklist of hamster ownership, delivering it particularly slowly on account of the fact that I was obviously an idiot. Sixty minutes passed before I emerged from the shop, blinking into the light, clutching a £10 rodent.
So far, there’s only been one hairy moment. On Sunday night, I put her in her Perspex ball and let her roll around the hallway as I watched telly in the sitting room. When the programme was over and I wandered back into the hall I was confronted with the site of the empty ball, its lid lying by its side. ‘Oh Jesus,’ I thought. ‘I’ve only gone and lost the second one, too.’ But just then she scuttled out from underneath the dresser and I dived on top of her, desperately trying to keep a grip as she writhed and wriggled in my hands. After a brief struggle, I managed to get her back in the ball and then felt a horrible pain like a band tightening around my chest. ‘Is this a heart attack?’ I wondered. Apparently not, because after a few seconds I was OK.
Since then, there’ve been no other incidents, though an awful smell has begun to seep out from behind the fridge. I’m hoping it’s a piece of rotting fruit, but I’ve got a sinking feeling it could be Roxy 1. I feel duty-bound to investigate and I’m going to make sure Ludo is nowhere in the vicinity. That way, when we return to the pet shop to buy a third hamster, he won’t be able to tell the owner what happened to the first.
Toby Young is associate editor of The Spectator.
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