My nephew, known as The Heathenish, has longed for a pet. Unfortunately for him, he lives in an apartment and the landlords (otherwise known as Grandmama and Pappy) don’t allow pets.


The Heathenish did have some fish, but they are sort of wet and scaly and not too petable. Plus, my sister complained about cleaning the tank out all the time. He was 4 years old and not quite ready to take the responsibility on himself, I told her.


Once the fish went to that big toilet bowl in the sky, my sister nixed the idea of replacing them, despite The Heathenish repeatedly asking for trips down the tropical fish aisle at the big box store.


Next, it was kittens. A feral cat gave birth in a lot across the alley from my sister’s place, and The Heathenish was enchanted with the kittens. He begged and begged Grandmama just to let him have one tiny kitten, but Grandmama, with visions of litter-training dancing in her head, denied his request.


Then my kids got Stumpy the Hell Puppy. Now, Stumpy is mostly grown up now, but when we got her, she was a deceptively cute, fluffy ball of fur. Both The Heathenish and his little brother Fatty Lumpkins adored Stumpy. For her part, Stumpy confused their little tushes with chew toys; good thing Fatty’s got plenty of padding.


Now, The Heathenish pleaded with Grandmama to let him have just a small dog. Grandmama, displaying either incredible fortitude or a heart made of stone, reiterated her pet policy: No dogs allowed.


So, I was a bit surprised when I called my sister one day to see if she wanted to have lunch.


“I can’t,” she said. “I’m looking at hamsters with the boys.”


“Um, yeah. Aren’t you not allowed to have pets?” I asked.


“It’s a hamster. How much trouble can it be?”


Thinking about holes, hamster pellets and gnawed wires, I said, “I don’t know. But you should ask first.”


“We’re just looking,” she hedged.


Yeah, right. I know my sister. “You really should check and see if it is okay,” I said.


“You should have seen his face when they asked who had pets at preschool and he was the only one who didn’t raise his hand,” she countered.


Ouch. She goes straight for the gut.


So it wasn’t any surprise when I stopped by the house later that week and found out that Fuzzy Buddy, a golden hamster, had taken up residence in a cage on top of the refrigerator.


“Why is he up there?” I asked.


Well, Fatty Lumpkins tossed Fuzzy Buddy in the sink (apparently, hamsters swim quite well) and The Heathenish let him escape three times already by simply leaving him on the floor when he was done playing with him. My sister lured him out of the heating vents with hamster chow.


I tried to coax the little rodent out of his nest, but he’d become wise and wasn’t buying it.


“It’s nocturnal,” my sister sighed. “And I’ve got to clean the cage.”


Welcome to the family, Fuzzy Buddy. If you escape again (and you will), watch out for the kittens.





(Wallace-Minger is the staff writer for the PA Focus and can be contacted at swallace@pafocus.)

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