Rodent Rage

by Eric

Never fall for a rodent.

They might have cute faces and squeak like squeeze toys, but in the end a rodent's just a rodent.

Recently we've had to put aside our tendencies towards anthropomorphism and rid the house of some adorable looking little visitors from the surrounding woods.

That, and Mary's essay on British fetes, reminded me of a sobering experience with rodents that started at a kind of American fete, a library fundraising event that in addition to the usual booths, food, and attractions found at small fairs, featured an auction.

When my buddy and I spotted three hamsters in a box at the auction we were still kids. We didn't even know the word "anthropomorphism." Rodent fever gripped us. We had to have them. The bidding was furious. One dollar. A dollar fifty. Two. Three. Four dollars. Five. Six dollars. Going once for six dollars. Going twice. Sold!

Three weeks allowance blown on three balls of fur. I had a dime and four pennies left in my jeans. I suppose my buddy and I should've stopped bidding against each other back at a buck twenty-five. But where's the fun in that?

The plan was to trade the little fellows back and forth, so we could both experience the indescribable bliss of hamster ownership. The first night they were going to stay in the basement at my parents' house. For hours, we watched the cuddly critters chittering and cavorting in their aquarium. Then we went upstairs and turned out the lights.

Next morning when I went downstairs the first thing I noticed was the blood. Too much blood for the wood chips to soak up. Then I took in the rest of the scene.

I had a strong stomach. I drank root beer Fizzies before breakfast. But I'd never seen anything like the carnage in that aquarium. This was something out of a Jim Thompson novel. One of our pets lay sprawled on its back, belly ripped open, eyes glazed. Another furry body was crumpled in a corner, much too far from its head.

Luckily we hadn't named them yet. It would've been worse if it had been Squeaky and Baby with their innards hanging out.

The survivor -- the killer -- chattered and hissed and bared its teeth. This was not a locked aquarium mystery. There was no doubt what had happened.

Isn't it always the way? You give in to a pair of dark imploring eyes and next thing you know someone's head is lying in the wood chips.

Why had it happened? How had the fight started? Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of hamsters?

My buddy and I carried the aquarium through backyards and up the railroad tracks, a long way, until we came to the swamp, and then we walked down a muddy track into the woods, until the path gave out and we couldn't go any further. That's where we dumped the murderer.

He plopped onto the ground, paused, twitched his head to stare at us through those black killer's eyes, wrinkled his bloody snout. and grinned. But it wasn't a nice grin. Then he turned and rolled straight into the woods as if he was on wheels.

Hell on wheels.

We knew that sooner or later he'd meet up with a circling hawk, a stray dog, or a hungry feral cat -- heaven help them.