Hamster-gate continues. Last Saturday, Caroline and I went out to dinner, leaving the children playing with Roxy in the company of a babysitter. I told them to put her back in her cage before they went to bed, making sure that all doors, etc. were securely fastened. In order to make sure they complied, I stressed that the consequence of her escaping would be certain death — just as I had before we lost Roxy Mark I.
When we came home at midnight, I checked the cage just to make sure the children had followed my instructions and, to my horror, discovered that the lid to Roxy’s sleeping compartment hadn’t been screwed down properly. Sure enough, the little Houdini had escaped. I looked in all the obvious places — under the sofa, behind the fridge, up the chimney — but there was no sign of her. She had vanished.
The following morning, the children were devastated. After a flurry of accusations and counter-accusations, the culprit was identified: Ludo, my seven-year-old son. He’d been tasked with putting Roxy back in her cage by the babysitter and, instead of using the main entrance, he’d lowered her into her bed and then forgotten to shut the lid.
‘I’m sorry, daddy,’ he said, fighting back the tears. ‘It was an accident.’
Sasha, my eight-year-old daughter, was unimpressed.
‘Murderer,’ she said.
After another fruitless search, we had a family conference and weighed up our options. Should we buy yet another hamster or just face the fact that we’re incapable of looking after one? This was Sasha’s view.
‘We’ve already lost two, not to mention our cat,’ she said. ‘We’re, like, the family that kills pets.’
But the three boys were keen to have another go, particularly Ludo who didn’t want to be responsible for the fact that we’d never own a pet again.
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