RIP Punchy

Before I left to start my day today, i noticed Punchy trying to escape her tub. I then noticed that she was getting awfully big, and made a note to escape proof her tub accordingly. In between getting dim sum and attending a lindy swing class, she managed to escape her tub and kill herself. I found her in my roommate's trashcan. I'm trying to figure out what happened. Did she fall in and die on impact? Did she eat something poisonous in the trashcan? Did she eat something poisonous, and then, in her reduced state, fall in the trashcan and die on impact?

I'm a little sad that Punchy is gone, but it's not Chess-sized sad. For one, I didn't own Punchy for as long-mere months. For another, Punchy was a biter. Of everything. Wood, fingers, plastic tubes. She drew blood on a regular basis. However, I am sad. I feel like the Era of the Hamster has come to a close. Gone are the plastic tubs, the colored tubes, the cut wood homes. I tossed all the aspen bedding, and the hamster balls. The apartment is a little bit more empty, a little bit more sterile.

The best hamster ever.

My hamster Chess died over Thanksgiving weekend. She looked very peaceful, like she fell asleep and forgot to wake up.

I tried to think of ways to send her off. She was a calming presence, a constant in the hullabullooo of the past three years. I used to spend many evenings reading and listening to her run in her tub. I wanted to do right by her. I thought maybe I could bury her in a park. Or maybe I could put her in a little boat and set fire to it as it drifted off, ancient nordic Viking style. The more I thought about making these decisions, the sadder I got. I remembered I once drove Chess to Stockton to meet my baby cousins, but they were so scared of her. My mom played with her the most, and fed her bits of melon when she thought I wasn't looking. I realized I couldn't bury her in a park, because there are laws in place preventing that. I don't have my own little yard to bury her. There are no rivers in Los Angeles in which to set her adrift, and the Pacific Ocean's currents won't let her travel very far. The more I got tangled in these details, the more I cried. I just couldn't deal with all the logistics; all I could picture are little paws and fluffy fur. Whenever I laid my hand flat in her tub, she'd crawl right into my palm and sit there expectantly, waiting to be put in her ball for her excercise.

In the end, I put her in a little box, and put her in the trash. It involved the least amount of thought possible, and I really didn't want to think anymore.

I wanted to do right by her. In the end, I couldn't.

No one should have to be practical after losing someone they love.