Burroughs and me
Hamsters are wonderful creatures: curious, active, resourceful, and, of course, cute as the dickens. They are one of the most popular varieties of pets around — certainly the most popular pet rodents (subfamily Cricetinae, in case you want a fancy word to drop during small talk) — though that might have less to do with their inherent qualities than the fact they are dirt cheap. (Less than P100 each at any sizable mall, last I checked.)
I have owned four hamsters in my life, though for various reasons, only one of them lived to what could be considered a ripe old age. My first hamster was named Thurber, and he was the handsomest and friendliest little thing, but succumbed over the weekend after I got him to a common hamster ailment known as wet-tail (which takes a week to develop, which means he already had it when I got him from the pet store). My second (and only girl) hamster was named Colwin, and was a skittish little critter who keeled over one day, apparently from a nervous breakdown.
My fourth and last and most short-lived hamster was named Cheever (those of you who studied literature in college may have noticed a pattern in my hamster naming), and he was a gift from my officemates. I think he may have succumbed to boredom as he was given to me at the beginning of a long brainstorming session, and gave up his little hamstery ghost before I even got home.
Burroughs was my third and hardiest hamster; he lived for almost two years (the usual lifespan is two years, three max). Though I am a slow learner, he managed to teach me a few things along the way.
TAKE YOUR TIME. Some people don’t realize that hamsters need taming before they think of your fingers and hands as something other than invaders to be shredded or meaty snacks. I hand-tamed Burroughs over the course of weeks, an hour or so every afternoon, getting him used to my scent and plying him with treats like apple bits. It was not unlike the fox-taming sequence in The Little Prince, except that Burroughs was cuter and I am not blonde and curly-haired.
LIVE LARGE. The cages sold in most pet stores are much too small for an active healthy hamster; they need a space that is at least two feet long and one foot wide to run around in — larger, if possible. Of course my original plan to seal off one room of my house entirely for hamster-keeping proved unfeasible, but the point is, you want your hamster (and yourself) to live as well as he can within the means available, or else depression and watching noontime variety shows all the time may ensue. There are people who sell custom-made bin-type cages (made of those huge plastic containers) on Sulit.
THE DETAILS MATTER. Read up on hamster care if you decide to get a hamster: pet shop people know nothing and will in fact unwittingly misinform you (the fact that they sell hamsters in pairs — not taking into account the solitary nature of Syrian hamsters, or their rapid reproduction rate, is bad enough). There are certain foods that are tantamount to poison for them, and each type (Syrian, Siberian, Roborovski, etc) has its own quirks. Burroughs was a long-haired Syrian (what some marketing genius dubbed a “Teddy Bear” hamster), and he enjoyed grapes, hated sand baths, needed combing and clipping every once in a while, and enjoyed the music of Air and David Bowie.
KEEP LOOKING. Hamsters are natural escape artists. I once thought I had lost Burroughs, only to find out that he had climbed to the top of a high-set medicine cabinet by bracing himself between the cabinet and the wall and climbing up like a jewel thief or dashing international spy. The point is, if I had given up on my search, Burroughs might still be on the top of that cabinet. Or at least his tiny skeleton. In extreme cases, a “trap” (like a tabo with some sort of “ladder” propped against it) baited with peanut butter or some other substance may be necessary.
ACCEPT THE PASSING. Hamsters are easy to get attached to, but the fact is they have very short lifespans. As I said before, they live two or three years if you’re lucky. When Burroughs passed away, my landlord wrapped him in this piece of cloth he got in Tibet and we buried him (the hamster, not the landlord) deep in the backyard of our compound, then lit incense in a pattern around the grave. The ceremony helped, I think, as did the knowledge that he would never outlive me or even get to watch two World Cup seasons in a row. Acceptance was the last lesson my rodent companion of almost two years taught me, though I still do miss him. Bye, Burroughs.
