Sunday, November 13, 2011

A Plan of Action

The hamster is dead. 

We all knew it was coming. And a few nights ago, I couldn't sleep and I didn't hear the hamster on the wheel all night long. I asked my daughter the next morning if Rizzo was still alive. She checked and he was.

This morning, the husband asked her if the hamster was still alive. She checked and came back to our room and said, "He's laying on his side."

Well, that's a bad sign.

Springing into action, I headed towards my daughter's room, as my husband said, "Wait. What's our plan of action?"

Fortunately, the filter was on this morning so what immediately formed in my brain didn't fly out of my mouth: "Plan of Action? How about if it's dead, we get it the fuck out of the house? How's that for a plan of action?"

The phrase "Plan of Action" immediately triggered a memory of my friend who had a bit of a mouse problem a few years ago. She advised her husband -- a very, very smart guy, despite what I'm about to write -- of the problem and he responded thusly: 

"We'll need a three- to five-year plan of action." 

When she first told me this story, I nearly wet my pants. I can only imagine the incredulous look that must have taken over her face after her husband proposed a Three- to Five-Year Plan of Action to get rid of some mice.  And I had to ask her ... Did the Plan of Action look something like this?

Year One: Get acquainted with the mice 
Year Two: Gain the trust of the mice
Year Three: Lure mice into false sense of security....

I mean, WHAT?  Three- to Five-Year Plan of Action? And I only mock because my friend, who loves her husband very, very much, thought this was as goofy then as I do now. She immediately went to the basement, found some plywood, came back upstairs and nailed boards across the obvious "Points of Access."  Done! Mouse situation solved in three to five minutes.  Funding for the Three- to Five-Year Plan of Action funneled into 6- to 8-month plan to rewire the bedroom closet light. 

The hamster is dead.

He looked like a small, overcooked piece of fried chicken. He was also stinky, so it is doubtful that he died just last night. I'm guessing he passed on Friday. My daughter isn't emotional at all; she had mourned for him a few weeks ago when we thought he had a tumor (altho, he didn't seem to have it when we scooped him from his cage into his coffin today), so I guess she knew it was coming.  Also, the hamster was an asshole. He never warmed up to anyone and was a biter. If you had the luck to get him in your hand, he'd make this really weird shriek and then he'd bite you. He was a shrieker and a biter and an asshole.

So we buried the hamster.

He's in the box.

Daddy dug a hole.  Mag said a few words. She also got dressed up for the service. Really dressed up. I don't think anyone had given this much attention to that hamster since we brought him home from PetSmart two and a half years ago.

And life goes on.

Seven days after we got the hamster, I posted this picture with the following caption: As it turns out, the hamster is an asshole. I think Raoul senses that.

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