She has no pictures of the hamster, no evidence of his tiny life. Because of this I wanted to dedicate this entry to him - he of the miniature whom I often desired to eat; he of the pink, plastic ball that would roll around the house in maddening circles; he, my brother in insomnia, who would stay awake late into the night, huddled in his tea box, conspiring god knows what.
He was the only creature in this house, save the prison guard and her husband, who did not fight or fear me. Who paid me little attention, in fact, except perhaps some mild curiosity. But then, what was his infant mind capable of pondering? Did he dream, or am I as foolish as my prison guard for contemplating this? Did he know he would die? Was he afraid?
I did not know him, but I am sorry he is dead.