The other evening, our family had dinner with the family next door. Afterwards, we were invited to have a look at their son’s hamster, a delightful little creature, fluffy and bright-eyed, with sable patches on her rich, creamy fur. We took turns petting her; we watched as she held a single Brussels sprout in her paws and worked at it steadily with her sharp little teeth.  As soon as we got home the Can we have a hamster too, pleeeeease? entreaties started.

I have told the kids repeatedly that we cannot have a hamster, even though the neighbors are giving away one of theirs complete with cage. My reasons are many: hamsters are accomplished escape artists for one, and our cat already keeps us well supplied with rodents. Also, I’m not looking for any more work. It’s bad enough that I have to nag the kids to come feed the cat every morning. And afternoon. And evening. And all points in between. It’s hard enough getting them to keep their rooms even semi-tidy. The idea of having another creature in this house generating yet more mess and work does not appeal no matter how cute it is. And finally, the little creatures, engaging as they are, die on you. Frequently. I speak as one with experience: the garden of my childhood home was littered with the graves of many tiny animals, much loved and mourned. Dogs, cats, gerbils, birds. Here in Scotland, there is already a dog buried in our front garden. His name was Troy; I know this because it is carved into one of the tree trunks. I dread the day the cat goes, and I weep over every one of the mice, blackbirds and voles that she drags half-dead into our kitchen. I am not eager for our garden to become a pet cemetery.

Last night my husband and I were sitting peacefully when all of a sudden our eldest came crashing into the room, holding something in her hand. ‘Moooom!  Look what the cat’s just killed!’  I saw something soggy that resembled a truncated, tailless rat. With sable patches. Oh Jesus, the neighbor’s hamster. Mrs Nutkin.

I wrapped Mrs Nutkin’s limp little body in a tea-towel and gently patted her dry, trying to see where she was injured. No blood. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it looked?  My youngest produced a few peanuts and we put one in front of the hamster. Her nose immediately went into high gear and we all breathed a sigh of relief.  Mrs Nutkin was one wet, miserable hamster, but she was still alive.

We called our neighbors and they came to collect her. For a while, we all thought that the creature had survived her escape attempt unscathed, but this morning I learned that she died during the night.

Our neighbors asked if their kids could bury her in our garden so that they can come back and visit the grave. I said yes, of course. But as I hung up the phone I pictured it in my mind’s eye:  the pitiful little box soggy with childish tears. The biscuits crumbled into the grave. The pathetic little stones, the marker, crudely labelled. Oh, Jesus. I might as well get the kids a hamster.