Escape From Alcatraz

Yeah. It feels that way. I know this blog should be about serious things and writing and stuff, but I just need to take a moment to talk about the little bastard of a hamster that set my mood for at least the first half of the morning. -_-

Hammy the Syrian HamsterBeautiful hamster. To be truthful its cute, fluffy, incredibly friendly and never once even looked like it might bite me (unlike the hamster’s my sister and I kept at my mum’s place). In fact this little runt has been running happily over my fingers for the past two days and squeaking whenever I come by the cage and generally being lovely. She’s a darling. No idea what her name is, by the way, but in my current mood, she’s called ‘It.’

She’s been with us for a couple of days; we’re looking after on behalf of Dave’s friend who is away for a couple of days. I don’t mind, I mean I figured this would be a step towards my never ending quest to obtain a kitten (see ‘About‘ page). I figured this would help; having something cute and fluffy in the house, right? So… up until yesterday we were doing fine and dandy until I noticed, right before going to bed, that one of the books we’d put across the top had been moved.

Now we’d already been warned that this hamster was something of a Houdini-wannabe, so we’d already gotten wise to the fact that she can open the door. In fact I believe she did it once on Saturday while I was out, so we’d taken to putting books over the main door and over the door of the sleeping pod.

But…! When I looked at it last night, the book had been moved. Thinking nothing of it, I scolded the little darling as she ran through her wheel, replaced the book and went to bed. Cut to this morning. Up I get, awake, lively, clean and wanting breakfast and as I come into the living room, say good morning to Alan, I notice that the book has moved again. Not only as the book moved but the door looks like its been popped open. Hmm. Its Alan that had me look to be honest; if he hadn’t said it, I might have just shut the door like I did last night. But no, I looked and she’s not in bed. I look again; she’s not in the bed pod tunnel. I look again; she’s not in the wheel. I look again; she’s not on the lower levels, hiding in a bog roll or even working her way into the pile of sawdusty crap at the back. Hell’s balls she’s not there.

A mad search ensues. We tear apart the living room, the study, the kitchen, quietly feeling grateful that a lack of carpet throughout the house means that its very unlikely that the nippy little critter made it up the stairs. Hard wood floors, no grip to speak of and thankfully no big holes; she couldn’t go far, right? Oh, but you’d be wrong if you thought that. I couldn’t find her anywhere! Alan did far more comprehensive searching than I managed since, at the back of my mind, I’m thinking that I need to get ready for work, but not a sign of this little runt did we find. Not even a puddle of piss or a carelessly discarded pellet of shit. Nothing.

At once point I pulled out a small wooden plank beneath one of the cupboards under the sink. I looked into the gap, quite surprised that you could even fit anything into it, but she wasn’t there. Then I had to go to work. You might have seen Tweets about ‘Alcatraz’ at some point in the morning; that was the best I could do without swearing rather loudly and angrily at the Twitterverse.

Come lunch time I’ve almost forgotten about it until I get a message from Alan saying that she’s been spotted in the little tiny crack of space beside the plank of wood I pulled out. I couldn’t even get my damn finger in there! But now we know she’s locked in the kitchen and can’t get anywhere which is a good start.

By the time I get home, I’m expecting to have to hunt high and low, but there are already several hamster traps laid out in the kitchen (think a walkway covered in food with a long drop at the end). But its not necessary. Oh now. The damn thing has climbed back into her cage all of her own accord and gone to sleep in the comfort of her bed pod surrounded by straw, food and comforting darkness. -_-

Needless to say I had plenty to say about it. Not that she gave a damn. And now, sweet as anything, as though nothing ever happened, she’s put her head out of the tunnel and is looking at me. She’s watching me type even now. Bitch.


And yet… I still think she’s cute! Go figure.
(by the way… Dave… this never would have happened if we had a kitten! :p)

About Ileandra Young

I'm a thirty-*mumbles* year old (purple loving, cheese worshipping) author of fantasy, juggling a pair of beautiful twin boys with my burning desire to make up stories and write them all down. When I get the chance, I play games, listen to music, and in days long past I even ran a radio show. Though I occasionally write non-fiction, my heart lives in fantasy and my debut novel, Silk Over Razor Blades is now available through Amazon along with part two of the trilogy, Walking The Razor's Edge.
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