The Sad Tale of Spunky the Hamster

A few years ago now, my parents made a deal with my younger sister.  That deal was that if she were to keep her bedroom clean for a certain amount of time, she would be rewarded with a hamster to keep as a pet.  They seemed to ignore the fact that this was a terrible idea, given that we already kept several cats in our house.

The decision was made despite my input, however, and we soon adopted two furry little hamsters.  We were told that they were both male.  We were lied to.

LIES!

Soon, our home was overrun by the adorable little monsters.  At first, I loved them as much as anyone else might; they were tiny, furry balls of cuteness.  I had no natural defense against that.  There is no defense against that level of cuteness.



Had Hitler used Nazi Hamsters, we'd all be speaking German now.



That was right before the Hamster Massacre of ’08 began.

Those hamsters were brutally murdered, left and right, by those evil, evil cats of ours.  It seems like every day we were tearing fuzzy corpses out of malevolent feline jaws.  Eventually, out of heartbroken despair, I closed my heart to the hamsters.  After all, you can only see so many hamsters horribly killed before you become desensitized to it.

Meh.  You see one hall filled with the blood of innocents, you've seen 'em all.

I became bitter and lonely; I rejected all love that came my way, certain that, somehow, it would be eaten by a cat.  And then, one day, there was Spunky.

Spunky the Hamster seemed, at first, to be an ordinary hamster.  I started out feeling nothing for him; after all, I had witnessed the deaths of so many other hamsters before; I could not afford to become emotionally attached to another one, only to watch him die.

But Spunky would not accept that.  He spent many a day by my side, following me around everywhere I went.  He changed my flat tire, read me bedtime stories, brought me soup when I was sick, and knit me a blanket with love in every stitch.  No one had ever gone so far out of their way for me before.  Slowly but surely, he was winning me over.

Then came the night that solidified our relationship.  I had gone out with friends that evening to hang out and maybe see a movie, but things ended up getting a little crazy.  One minute we were playing Illegal Immigrant in the back of Sarah’s pick-up truck, and the next thing I knew, we were on a crazy spree through town, downing Cherry-Cherry Limeades at Denny’s and playing hide-and-go-seek in the Wal-Mart.

By night’s end, I was completely out of it, stumbling around a strip mall parking lot.  My friends were gone, but I was too ashamed to call my parents for a ride home.  They would surely have questions about what I’d been out doing all night, and why I kept mumbling that I was sick of pie, too, and then start giggling.  I just needed someone to bring me home, so I could just sleep it all off.  I called the only one that I knew I could count on: Spunky.

Also, Jesus let me use his cell phone.  He's pretty cool like that.

He came and got me, all right, but he didn’t just take me home and put me to bed, oh no.  He made me sit up almost all night, sipping orange juice and snacking on crackers as he chewed me out for my outrageous behavior.

At first, it ticked me off.  After all, who was he to tell me what to do?  I could take care of myself… or so I thought.  But after several more nights with ‘friends’ like the one described above, always ending with faithful Spunky picking me up and telling me off, my attitude changed.  I began to realize how much Spunky must care for me, and I realized that I had grown to love him in return.  With his help, I turned my life around.  I realized that my behavior stemmed from trauma; the Hamster Massacre had shocked me into shutting down my emotions, and I was acting out as a way to just feel something, anything.  But I didn’t have to do that anymore.  Spunky had taught me to love again.

We were very happy, for a while.  I kept Spunky in a lovely hamster ball for most of the time, which he liked, as it allowed him to easily follow me around while getting an excellent cardiovascular workout.  We spent several happy weeks together; going for walks, attending local theatre events and craft shows, watching movies on rainy days.  Even our occasional moments of bickering are memories I now hold dear.

The day that it all came to an end started out normally enough.  I had stepped into another room to grab a magazine when I heard what sounded like a scuffle in the other room.  Actually, it sounded more like a “cat viciously murdering a helpless, adorable hamster” sort of sound.  Anyway, I burst from the room, my mind trying to reject what I already knew must be true.  There, in the jaws of a big tan-and-white cat, dangled my poor Spunky.

I pried his mangled remains from the beast, and held him close to me as he drew his last few, painful, breaths.

“Spunky!” I cried out, “You must hold on!  You can’t die like this, you taught me to love!”

“You must go on,” Spunky wheezed as he gasped his last, “You must learn to love… again…” and then he was gone.

I will tell you, my friends, that it was hard, so hard, not to crawl back into that hole of hedonistic madness in which I had once dwelt, and which Spunky had dragged me out of.  I realized, though, that it would be an insult to him, and to the love I felt for him, to go back to my old ways, and so, for him, I forced myself to move on.  I had to love again.  For Spunky.

For Spunky!

The moral of my story is this; hamsters are small and practically defenseless.  If you are going to learn to love again, try loving something that won’t die immediately.

Capoeira: The Power of the Pants

Friends, I know that you will not judge me, so I will share with you my darkest secret: I am, alas, not in terribly good shape.  Despite my best efforts, I seem completely incapable of maintaining any kind of healthy habits.  I always have the very best of intentions, but somehow always end up abandoning any exercise routine that I begin. 

I'm just so easily distracted...

My roommate, Sarah, on the other hand, started a running regimen to keep in shape last semester while studying in England.  Being the beast that she is, she continued that practice after returning home at the start of this past summer, only then she had the disadvantage of having me for a running partner.  We set goals and talked a good game about how much we were going to run (so much!), but our enthusiasm eventually petered out.  I think I was a bad influence on her.

Although I actually grew to enjoy the running routine we had, I was really just trying to get my body used to the frequent physical activity, so I would be in decent shape to join our school’s Capoeira club, which I’d been interested in checking out for months.  When the running stopped, it was just around the start of the new semester, anyway, so I figured it was enough.  I’d start learning Capoeira (an Afro-Brazilian martial-arts/dance form), and that would keep me in excellent shape.  No other exercise necessary!

These guns don't lie.

Yeah, I went to about four meetings.

It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy Capoeira.  I did.  It was just terribly intense.  I left each class in pain, limping pathetically back to my dorm room.  I could only make it to about one meeting a week, since I needed the rest of the week to recover from the previous meeting.  I couldn’t even roll over in bed at night without going “OW!  MY BUTT!!!”  Also, many other students in the group were dancers who, if not doing it perfectly, at least avoided looking like wounded water buffaloes attempting simultaneous cartwheels/roundhouse kicks.  I worried that I would never catch up to the others.  Each meeting felt more painful and embarrassing than the last.  I thought that my summer running effort had been for nothing.

Why must I be so awkward?

At last, there was a shining beacon of hope; a chance to improve my pathetic skills.  One evening in class, the club co-presidents offered us lowly students the opportunity to buy...

For a nominal fee!

CAPOEIRA PANTS!!!

You need to understand that I HAD TO HAVE THOSE PANTS.  For some reason, I was suddenly certain that if I could only obtain a pair of pants with CAPOEIRA printed down the side, I would be magically transformed into the most graceful and impressive performer of Capoeira ever.  Everyone would envy my mad Capoeira skills.  Capoeira enthusiasts from around the world would gather in awe to see me perform.

As you can probably guess, that is not at all what happened.  No, I continued my wounded water buffalo routine for a few more practices before giving in to my more dominant nature.

I'm just really easily distracted by comics...

And that is how I went from a healthy summer routine to hiding in my dorm room, eating bagels and grilled cheese everyday.

Preparing for the coming winter.

The Most Important Lesson My Mother Taught Me

Halloween is, unfortunately, passed.  I don’t know how everyone else spent their Halloween, but I spent it having a hissy fit over not being able to wear the costume I had prepared. 

I ended up handing out candy dressed as “kid at sleepover”-I wore my pajamas with a bathrobe and slippers, with a blanket wrapped around me, possibly the laziest costume ever.  I didn’t even bother brushing my hair.

           

            Luckily, my niece had a better attitude than I did.  She decided to tell me a couple of great Halloween stories to brighten my mood.  Since these stories were just too good to keep to myself, I have decided to present them here, to you, as they were told to me by a four-year-old.  Enjoy.

Story #1: A Monster Story

        There were these kids who were camping. 

And this man...

This Man.

While the kids were asleep, he ate the manager. 

What the...

The kids were really scared and locked the door, and the monster was trying to get them. 

That is not going to help you.

Then superheroes showed up and saved them. 

Batman killed the monster, and the kids were safe.

This seems right.

Story #2: A Ghost Story

           There were these kids, and they went into a house…



These are not intelligent kids.



A haunted house. 

And the ghost was scaring them and coming after them. 



"Like, boo, and stuff."



They locked the door, but the ghost kept coming. 

How is this supposed to help?

Then the superheroes showed up, and Batman killed the ghost. 

This seems somewhat... less plausible.

The kids were happy and went home, and they were safe.

            Those were great scary stories, right?  I sure think so.  The truth is, I love a good scary story, and that’s what I love about the Halloween season: there are just so many great ghost stories floating around everywhere.  It breaks my heart a little that October is already over.

            Since we are now coming into November, it is time for us to start thinking about what we’re thankful for, rather than what we’re frightened of.  I’ve decided to encourage this sort of reflection by sharing what I am thankful for, which is the lessons my mother taught me about the relationships between men and women.

           

My mom always thought that it was important to teach us kids from a young age about self-respect and avoiding abusive relationships.  She wanted us to grow up to be strong, independent women with happy, healthy relationships.

           

            To accomplish this, my sisters and I sat through many Lifetime movies and Oprah specials dealing with the subject of abuse while my mother narrated.

"That's bad."

            The message we were supposed to take from these lessons was this:

            The message that I absorbed was this:

            Yes, I was under the impression that all adult relationships involved a man beating the stuffing out of a woman, and that there was no escape from this fate. 

"My stuffing!!!"

I became cynical towards romance, and wondered when my father would finally snap and start beating my mother.  Worried for her safety, I began devising a plan to kill my father when he started hurting her.  Not if.  When.  And I was close with my dad.

He would never see it coming.

           

I didn’t tell my parents until several years later that I’d ever had a plan to kill my dad.  My mom thought it was funny.  Dad’s reaction was a little different.

WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO DO THAT?!

           

As a little kid, though, I was deadly serious.  I was terrified of getting older and eventually getting married.  I was afraid to leave the house, in case Dad started beating Mom when I wasn’t around to enact my Operation: Murder Dad plan.  All of the fear and stress weighed heavily on me until one day, when my entire mentality shifted.

           

I was sick of being frightened of men.  I was sick of being afraid to fall in love and get married and have a family of my own.  I was sick of it.  So, I came up with what was, to me at the time, a revolutionary concept.  I was not going to tolerate abuse.  As simple as that.  I simply would not accept it.

           

And as we all know, the best defense is a good offense.

           

Yes, by trying to teach her daughters to avoid abuse, my mother had only succeeded in shaping a homicidal man-hating abuse machine.  I now faced the prospect of love and marriage much more charitably.  I imagined a life for myself; raising a family, picking apples, telling my children bedtime stories, and viciously beating my husband after the kids were in bed. 

Yes, my fantasy for adult life involved regular apple picking.  Yours didn't?

Not even if he did something that upset me.  Just to keep him in his place.

"It was you or me..."

           

I’ve grown up some since then, and now realize that a marriage can and should be a happy union between two people who love one another, in which both parties are equally respected, without violence involved on either side.  But I still remember fondly my defining moment in life, the moment I thought, to Hell with this.  I f***ing dare a man to hit me.  We’ll see if he wakes up the next morning because, honestly, I kind of think we should all teach our daughters how to seriously mess up a man if he ever hurts her, because it is never okay.

           

So, I dedicate this post to my mother, who taught me the most important lesson of all:

 To keep my man in line.