Luco and the Hamster

There has been a death in our house. One small hamster named Jason Voorhees, often called by nicknames like "the Champion" and "Hamstersandwich," did not wake up in his tea box this morning. Instead, his still body was buried in the ground Outside.

I know because I watched. I watched my prison guard, weeping, tucking the hamster into his box and taping it shut. Why would she tape it? Against what enemy was she guarding him? I fear the box she would have me lowered into - would she also tape my casket closed in a futile attempt to protect the dead against death?

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.