The Year of the Crock

According to Chinese doctrine, 2009 will be the Year of the Ox. You heard me right, and I'm as disgruntled as you are. Look it up. And when exactly was the Year of the Rat (which is as close as I'd come to the Year of the Hamster)? 2008! You mean I missed the whole thing? What a ripoff. I know what you're thinking - an actual rat would turn me into chop suey with a side order of dumplings. But if you take the time to investigate, my species isn't too far off from those sewer rodents anyway. And what would that mean for me? I could have been sitting pretty - at least until January 1, 2009.

Just think of all the lost chances - the full fur massages, claw pedicures, corrective eye surgery so I don't just see black and white anymore... the list could have been endless. Instead, I now have to sit back and watch some steroid-inflated cow take all the glory. I mean, what do cows (oops, I mean oxen) really do anyway? Other than pulling a plow, I haven't seen Ol' Betsy split the atom or anything. The one exception I guess would be over in India.

Have you seen the bovine species over there? They must be doing something right because folks in India do all but drive them around in limos... or rickshaws... or whatever they drive over there. I guess all I can do is bide my time till Dick Clark's plastic replacement counts down the end of 2009. When that happens I'll be shaking cocktails and kissing a set of fish lips as that sparkly hamster ball drops.

Ho, Ho, Who?

Wait a minute, wait a minute... I've got to catch my breath from laughing so hard. Let me see if I've got this straight. There's a big fat guy in a red suit who flies all over the planet and goes into every single house (Jews and Muslims excluded), dropping off presents and eating cookies? And he does this all in one night? Come on, I mean even allowing for difference in time zones the dude can't have more than twelve hours to do it all. Not to mention the fact that by the time he hits the last place he's put on an extra 125 pounds in chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin.

I'd feel bad for the kids this yarn is spun to were it not for the fact that the little yard apes have such wonder in their eyes when you tell them. Well, that plus the discipline factor is awesome: "Now, Johnny, I'd hate to have to tell Santa that you didn't finish your creamed corn." Nice touch, mom. This is where hamsters and fish would make for a much more plausable story. For starters, I'd be able to fit down even a European chimney way easier than the average white male. And crossing large bodies of water would be a lot easier for TaTa than even for me (and I have a pretty decent backstroke). Combined I think we'd make an awesome St. Nicholas. And that's another thing - why so many names, buddy? Who exactly are you hiding from?

Santa, St. Nick, Kris Kringle, Uncle Fredo... the list of aliases never ends. Seems to me like the guy is hiding something. And what's with the "jolly old elf" moniker? I thought "happy senior little person" would be more politically correct. Call me Ebenoodle Scrooge, but I smell a rat. And did I mention the fact that the last time I checked reindeer have no wings? Side note: If TaTa and I wake up Christmas morning to a new hamster wheel and rainbow gravel, I take it all back.

Caroling, Caroling, Bobsled Barreling

Picture it. You just sat down after a hard day at the paper mill. That steaming pork chop is in front of you and the fork is an inch and a half from your mouth. Your eyes are closed as your taste buds begin to water. Closer, closer comes that first bit of sustenance when... who the heck is that singing?!?

There's apparently this tradition every year where some folks like to walk around from house to house bellowing holiday classics like Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer at the top of their lungs. Why? I guess they're ticked that their own dinner wasn't ready when they got home. And boy, were my owners ticked. Everyone had to stop what they were doing, open the front door and let out some expensive heat to apparently warm the Elvis impersonators at their doorstep. Maybe it's because of their blue lips. I admit it, that part was pretty impressive. But wait, there's irony to this story.

As much as my owners griped about feeling obligated to listen to these wanna-be Tiny Tim's, what's the first thing they did with the kids when the dishes were done? Yup, gather round the untuned piano and try to sound like cats in heat themselves. What gives? Maybe it makes a difference when you know the person who is out of tune versus listening to the guy you vaguely remember from the rapid checkout lane at the GoodsMart. It's times like this that I'm glad TaTa can only blow bubbles to the tune of Feliz Navidad. Trust me, it's the next best thing to the waterfall setting on your sleepytime sound machine.

Frosty the Snowmole

Do you like ham? Neither do I. It's a salted meat. I've always thought that there must be a very good reason for salted meats, and that's the fact that they just don't taste good naturally. Look at turkey. Delicious, right? Note the absence of salt. I say load on the tryptophan but hold the sodium. What made me think of this? Well, the icebox must have been pretty low on cabbage, because this morning I awoke to chunks of ham in my bowl. I'm sorry, did someone think it would be funny to rearrange the links in the food chain? Tonight I'm replacing my owner's Ritz crackers with wheat germ. Happy snacking, Julio.

Anyway, while I held my nose and choked down what they call food (you savages), I saw a wee-little mole outside my window building a snowman. What fun! I decided to join him and make a new friend in the process. It turns out his name was Chauncey, and while every other mole in the North American continent is long dormant, he makes an annual tradition of building a six inch snowman before burrowing down. Aww, so cute, right? The down side is that the poor little dude is blind (it comes with being a mole), so he does the whole thing by touch. It's just like the blind chick who sculpted Lionel Richie's face in his Hello video (released in 1984, it was the third single from Richie's multi-platinum album Can't Slow Down).

My hamster heart swelled for the dead-eyed guy as my burrowing instinct kicked in. I began to pile up as much snow as I could to help Chauncey with the base of that snowman. I was all into it. I heard him shout what I assume were words of encouragement once or twice, but they kept getting quieter. He must have been in awe of my mile high snow mound. I turned around to see what my new mole friend thought of my efforts. Where'd he go? Oh, well, he must have changed his mind and already started in on his winter slumber. Back inside I went. I can't wait to see him again in the spring. Wow, the stick arms in that snowman sure look lifelike. Nice work, Chauncey.

Yes, TaTa, There Is A Santa Claus

Lights? Check. Egg Nog? Check. Garland? Check. Now where did I leave that copy of 'Twas The Night Before Christmas? It's kind of a fairy tale... or is it? Normally, I'd save the sappy stuff for Christmas Eve, but I wanted to give you time to share with your own little elves the magical experience that TaTa and I had last Christmas.

Now, I know, we're already sick of the commercials and catalogs by December 1st (let alone the 24th). Heck, by then I'm ready to buy a Holly Hobbie doll just to stop the voices. And by the middle of the month half of us want the holiday over with so we can just dig on cocktails at the New Year festivities. I admit it, last year I was one of you. I was adamant about one thing: What was under the tree for Noodle? End of story. This was especially true since my owners rarely, if ever, wrap their loot. Traditionally, they leave the most important gifts all sprawled out on Christmas morning. I guess it helps play into the whole, "Look kids, Santa was here!" routine. Pfft, whatever. The point is that sneaking a peek was easier than minute rice. The only problem was getting from the family room to the living room.

Stairs have never been my friend. My best bet? Go outside and get back in through the living room window. I naturally felt that TaTa should come along (to help bask in the glow of minced pies and cider). It was a struggle, but I got my buddy into a Ziploc bag, and out the window we went - with full intentions of just merrily plopping in the living room window. But the more I dragged TaTa towards gifty goodness, the more I couldn't help notice how much heavier he kept getting. A little thing called the freezing process had gotten in our way. In short, the water that had engulfed TaTa was now a block of ice.

I could see his little eyeballs looking at me in panic. What had I done? I just sat there and held my frozen friend with the cold-hearted snow falling all around us. In my selfishness, I'd pretty much taken a hit out on my best boy at Christmas. I mean, come on, even The Grinch never killed anyone! Then something kinda pretty happened. That same snow I had just cursed started to blow all around us until there was a large enough hill to run up and jump in the window. In no time at all we were snuggled right in front of the fire... defrosting.

All was quiet. Everyone was asleep. The goods? They never even occured to me. I just made my way back to the family room and unwrapped my buddy from his plastic sarcophagus. As I cuddled into my wood shavings, TaTa once again digging on H2O, Johnny Mathis steadily humming in the background, it dawned on me - I guess Santa actually does wrap the most important gifts sometimes. Call me a foo-foo hamster, but I swear I heard bells out there.

Win One For The TaTa

"That's enough, Reggie."

That's how it all started, but I should back up a little bit to bring you in on the Rumble in the Jungle. My owner apparently decided one hamster wasn't enough, so I woke up four days ago to the sound of foreign snores in my palatial estate. At first, I thought I'd been dreaming about breathing through a wet rag, or maybe we'd moved closer to the shore. But it turns out that neither was the case. I suddenly had a roommate named Reggie.

At first I thought it would be cool. We could run mazes together, talk about which celery is tastier (foreign or domestic). You know, fun stuff like that. But I quickly realized that Reggie was way more interested in treating our whole situation the way Marsha and Jan couldn't wait to pull a Code Red on Cindy. This new guy couldn't ask enough questions about TaTa, and that instantly made me suspicious. Then when Reggie's Spanish Inquisition was over, he moved his line of thought into all but water boarding my friend (which I guess would need to be more like air boarding since he's a fish and all). At first he just did dopey stuff like slap his paw on top of the water, but it quickly moved to unplugging TaTa's bubble treasure chest (the one where the little diver's head pops out - it's cute). Unacceptable. My room temperature blood began to boil. I was like Popeye watching Bluto hamster-handle Olive Oyl. Now this is the cool part where my saying "That's enough, Reggie," came into play.

This rat-excuse for a cuddly hamster swings around out of nowhere with a roundhouse kick. But I knew it was coming. I effortlessly raised my right paw to block it, twisting one of his claws in the process. Unfazed, Reggie was back up, swinging and flailing like the amateur that he is. Launching myself off my ferris wheel, I did a spin flip, catching both sets of his whiskers and landing him on his back. In hindsight, it felt like it was all in slow motion. He did get one good swipe in before I bought him a one way ticket to Unconsciousville. Grazing my chest with his hind leg he actually drew some blood, but the coolest part came next. I made no squeak. I just looked down, wiped the blood with my paw and touched it to my tongue, all the time not taking my eyes off him. I know, totally Bruce Lee, right? I'd go into how I finished him off, but there may kids in the room. You're welcome, TaTa.

Feel The Burn

I admit it, I couldn't wait till Christmas for this present. There are only so many infomercials a hamster can take in before he starts to realize he either needs to work on his self confidence, look better or improve his skin tone. I decided to do all three and buy that weight set I'd seen that blonde guy with the pony tail pushing. And to think - before I called I didn't even know they sold 4 ounce weights.

It all started when I accidentally caught myself in the mirror from a side view. At first I thought it was just extra fur. You know, my summer haircut was finally growing in or something. But then, after I got out of the bath one time and the fur was matted down, I still noticed that I didn't manage to maintain my college washboard tummy. What, I never mentioned that I was a dorm room pet before I transferred to domestic life? Anyway, that was when the idea first stuck in my head. Borrowing my owner's credit card and dialing the phone would be no problem. The hard part was when I had to use the computer to make the purchase. Believe it or not, holding the shift key down with one paw while trying to type my name in is no easy task. Seven to ten business days later, my gateway to Stallone-ness was on the front stoop. But the number one lesson I learned from the infomercial was that you always need someone there to watch you work out.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOIOOOO O

You don't need a spotter quite as much as you just need somone there to be amazed by how easy the workout is and how in no time at all you look better than Angela Lansbury did in the first season of Murder, She Wrote. I learned that from the infomercial too. I guess he or she could always jump in and help if you popped an O-ring or something, but that never came up. In short, I knew TaTa was my man. He did a great job of gazing in awe alright. In fact, he's often been speechless during my routine. He even puts on the wool cap I bought him so he looked like Mickey from Rocky I and II. I told him to forget Rocky III though. Mickey was just going through the motions by then.

My Hammies Are Killing Me!

Hey, where did all the grass go? No, seriously. A couple of weeks ago the big shot at this joint was out and about with the Yardboy 2000, bagging and tagging all the green for pickup. Now there's nothing but a sea of orange, brown and red out there. Not that it isn't beautiful, don't get me wrong, but based on what I overhear the head guy saying, the Yardboy won't make a dent. It's back to old fashioned raking for him.

That's not to say he doesn't crack out the Bigblaster Leafmaster XL for backup. You should see him with it. He's like Bill Murray in Ghostbusters the way he shoots at those things. But he's got no style, no rhythm. It's like watching a mini-tornado hit the yard. He doesn't understand the delicate dance with nature that it needs to be. If he's lucky, he just blows a few into the yard of the old lady who lives behind us. But she talks to the birdbath, so she'll never know. You've got to leave this kinda thing to a furry little mind like mine. How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time. I decided to take the same approach to de-leafing the yard. Insert spinning clock here with an overlay of my determined little face.

An hour and a half later, if I never see another dead leaf again it would be too soon. I swear, in looking back I think I moved all of like 12 leaves. And one gust of wind took care of that (darn you, stupid wind gust)! I don't know if you've ever tried it, but picking up leaves is not as easy as it looks. Every muscle in my body hurts - and that's saying a lot for a guy with muscles the size of rubber bands. They all fall so easily, so why not pick up easily too? I don't know who invented trees, but they apparently used prison rules when doing it.

Gobble This

Ah, the crisp smell of falling leaves, the chill in the air, the barking dog version of Jingle Bells at Walmart. It must be the holiday season... or at least the first week in November. Whatever happened to waiting till Black Friday to break out the holiday decorations? I haven't been around too long, but it seems like only yesterday we enjoyed just one, good solid month of Christmas preparations. The month of November used to be dedicated to this antiquated holiday known as Thanksgiving. You recall the 4th Thursday of the month, right?

That's the day when, despite the fact that it's a holiday, you have to wake up at the crack of where-the-hamster-sun-don't-shine to start rolling pie dough. Then while you try to peek in the living room to watch the same boring parade in the rain as last year, you set the timer for the turkey that will need more babysitting than your own offspring. But that's the easy part. At 1:30 the in-laws arrive. Then it's nothing but serving highballs and making sure the cheese dip doesn't run out. "Harry, can you run to the CVS and get more ice? The fridge died and I don't want the cranberry sauce to get warm." Dudes, you may laugh, but I've seen this script in action and it demands a curtain call. I mean seriously, even God took a day to chill. At least when everyone finally rolls home you can call it a day, right? Nice try.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO Now you've got seven and a half hours of dishwashing ahead of you before you can close your eyes for about 20 minutes. Why only 20 minutes? Well, you need to hit Macy's for the 5:3o sale the next morning. Face it, if you're there any later than 5:47 you miss out on the extra 3% off eyeliner. Maybe it's just the fact that I don't have access to any cash, but what's the rush? You have a whole month to go sprint-shopping. I've seen my owners jump through more hoops over the holidays than Martha Stewart makes useless potholders. What am I doing this turkey day? Maxing and relaxing with my boy TaTa in front of the tube to watch the big Ohio State game, that's what. If we had pants, we'd even undo the button. Hey, to be honest, TaTa's just glad no one serves fish for Thanksgiving. I still don't know how I'm gonna break it to him about the seafood infatuation some folks have on Christmas Eve.

Live Free or Snack!

If there's one thing I've learned during my months in nursery school it's that freedom isn't free. But then neither is lunch. I have to put up with googly eyed kids and pats on the head that make my eyes ache for just a carrot. But there is one thing I've paid attention to - all the whining about politics. Is it me, or are all politicians just full of dried corn and wheat rice anyway?

Everyone is all up in arms about democracy, democracy, democracy. But guess what. We're not a democracy, people. Well, by that I mean you're not. My race just eats each other to fend in the wild. Now, I haven't been to Yale, Harvard or my local community college, but I have listened to three year olds recite the Pledge of Allegiance. And my people, I have paid attention. The last time I recall, they pledged alleigance "to the Republic for which it stands." Hold on to your smallpox blanket, Tonto. Republic? What happened to everyone crying about a democracy all the time? I decided to do a little research.

Yeah, go figure. It turns out that in a democracy it's winner takes all. And those of you who voted Sally McFoxy for class president know what that means. It's nothing more than a popularity contest. Founding fathers like Rambo and Reagan realized that it really shouldn't just be a popularity contest though. They followed a more Machiavellian concept (and that's pretty deep for a hamster). What a lot of folks don't seem to dig is that we elect representatives to make decisions for us. Papaya! In layman's terms, it's a "republic". But this is just an observation from a small hamster who doesn't even have the right to vote. I guess that slipped the minds of Rambo and the guy on the penny. Note to self: march on Washington about that.

G'Night, John-Boy

You may have noticed that I've been on edge as of late. I've been meaning to say something about it. Sorry, but I always get that way a couple of weeks before my family comes to visit. I've never been more glad that the clerk at Pets-O-Rama picked me up to sell to little Sally Drizzlenose more than when I see my old brood again.

It would be one thing if during their visit we could all just go to our separate corners once in a while, but have you ever seen my place? It's one room. Then there's listening to my mother the whole visit; "You look like you've put on weight, Noodle. Why can't you be more like your sister Powderpuff, Noodle? Who's that weird fish over there, Noddle?" That's usually my breaking point. Say what you will about my weight and sibling comparison, but nobody steps to TaTa. Then the fights break out. And after all that... we get to sleep together right on top of one another (sounds weird, but trust me, it's all part of the burrowing instinct). By the time they all leave, I'm holding my breath just so I can get lightheaded.

And it never fails - someone always leaves something behind so I know they'll be back agan like an itchy rash. Don't misunderstand me. I love them, of course I do. But I love them the way you love the planet Jupiter. It's really pretty from afar, but as soon as you get too close the gravitational force squishes you into hamster goo. Well, from an emotional standpoint, that is. You get the idea.

Oogity Boogity!

This is so exciting. Halloween is so close, I can almost taste it like witch's brew. And do you know why it's so great? Because I get stuff, and I don't have to give anything to anyone... like at Christmas. Well, let me back track a little bit. I try to get stuff. Did you ever see the end of The Incredible Shrinking Man? Remember when the cat finds him and tries to make confetti out of him? My situation is kind of like that. And that's assuming I even get that far.

Even if I get out of the house without a closing door separating me from the feeling in my legs, I'm still not home free. This is the part where the cat comes in. Or, to be more specific, the cat next door, the dog two houses down on the left and pretty much any bird of prey in the northern hemisphere. But for the sake of argument, let's assume I made it to house number one on my sugar stop. Okay, now I just ring the bell, right? Easy for you to say, biped.

My best bet is to lurk in the shadows (which is extra cool because, ya' know, it's Halloween). Eventually some fudgy-pudgy is going to be eager to grab too much candy. The next thing I know, I'm showered in Snickers and Twizzlers. Just no Gobstoppers or anything in a box please. They hurt coming down. Once Dracula Junior moves to the next house, I hop a ride on the glucose superhighway. But don't frown. I'm not all greedy. When I eventually roll home I always make sure to toss a Tootsie Pop in TaTa's bowl. Sure, he can't eat it, but it is fun to watch it dissolve. Then I figure he can breathe the sugar.

Tiny Bubbles

You know what the best part of the oncoming chilly weather is? Being able to swim indoors in a heated pool. Well, not that it's a pool quite so much as a kitchen sink, but when your total body mass amounts to 10 ounces you don't exactly need the Grand Canyon. And it's even an activity that I can enjoy with my golden buddy, TaTa.

Lugging him over to the kitchen counter is something of a challenge, but worth it. Within minutes of the sink being filled and me diving off the faucet, we're playing water polo with the scrubby sponge. Now I know what you're thinking. Why not just take a dip in TaTa's bowl and let the filter worry about any hairballs. No thanks. First of all, TaTa is cold blooded. Do you know what that means? It means some major shrinkage on my hamster parts as soon as I dip a toe in that mini-Arctic Sea. The second reason I'd never go in there is that TaTa is a slob. The place is awful. He wouldn't even be able to find his food if it didn't float on top. Anyway, back to my little hot tub.

After about 1/2 hour the water starts to chill a bit and needs replenishing. But I admit it - I'm lazy. So lazy, in fact, that I take it as my cue to hop out, wrap a paper towel around my waist and make for my cage. Let my owners worry about draining the sink and putting TaTa back in his tank. Besides, since he can't talk they always just blame it on him anyway. A mute friend makes a great scapegoat.

Worth Every Penny

Well, what do you think? Be honest, you thought I was Sting for a second there. Hey, the surgery took his kind of dough. And that's no wonder - there aren't a whole lot of places who will give a hamster a nose job. I'd been thinking about it for a while now, and decided to just give it a go. If it doesn't work out, I can just have it undone like the implants I did last fall. I know, I know, but that was only because I lost a bet with TaTa.

It's an empowering thing to have a whole new nose. Practically speaking, breathing has been a lot easier. TaTa likes to crack wise and ask if I'll help to make his bowl into a jacuzzi, but I think he's just jealous. After all, trying to find a doc to do a gill job has got to be next to impossible. In addition to the practicality aspect, the other rodents I've come across have started paying a lot more attention to me. Sure, they're mostly fieldmice in the wood pile and chipmunks on the window sill, but a musician can only play the instruments he's given, right?

Don't worry though, I'm not going to let this new look go to my head... so to speak. I'll still be the same debonaire, dashing hamster you've always known. I'll just be a lot cooler looking on the dance floor and get free drinks from stray cats. Is it me, or have I always been this buff?

If You Prick Me, Do I Not Squeak?

So I've decided to try my paw at acting. I know, exciting, isn't it? This past Sunday's Arts and Entertainment section stated that there are open tryouts for Merchant of Venice. My heart tells me I'd be an awesome Shylock. Ideally, I'd try out for Romeo, but he didn't make it into that play. Must have been the poison he took in that other play.

Now there are a few different ways to get into the roll. I asked TaTa which he preferred, and he was a big fan of method acting. He told me that's what Dustin Hoffman did in Marathon Man. On the other hand, Lawrence Olivier (Larry to his friends) poo-pooed this method and said, "That's why they call it acting, my good man." Yeah, he cracks me up a lot too. You should catch his 1972 interview on The Dick Cavett Show. Classic.

Anyway, now I just need a way to get to the auditions. TaTa offered to give me a lift, but there's no river or fjord on the way. For my monologue I'm torn between Willy Loman's beautiful yet heartbreaking soliloquy before killing himself in Death of a Salesman or singing the theme song from Pound Puppies. Admit it, that was one cute cartoon.

A Little More Off The Top, Please

What have I done? Every time I look in the mirror, that's what I ask myself. At the time I thought it was a good idea. No, not just a good idea - a great idea. Come on now, all you ladies out there. After even just a few weeks, you're sick of your haircut too, aren't you? Well just think how someone feels who's had the same shaggy hairdo since day one. I needed a new me.

I can't even really say hairdo though, can I? I mean, technically speaking, I have fur. So it just kinda grows and falls out. But that's depressing. If I were an old hamster, I'd accept it, but not when my skin is so taught and glowing. TaTa has it lucky with just scales to worry about. But how does the dude not get chilly? Yeah, I get the whole warm blooded/cold blooded thing, but then wouldn't he just be perpetually cold? Maybe it's the kind of thing where if you're cold all the time you don't even notice it after a while. Why did this occur to me? Well, because I couldn't very well cut my own hair, could I? So I handed the scissors over to my pal Edward Fishyhands. Man, that water is cold.

Maybe the problem wasn't that he's a bad stylist, just that he had to lean his body against one blade while using his fins to grasp the other blade, pulling the two together. And it's all done above water - where he can't breathe! If you think it sounds complicated, you should see him actually doing it. I swear, he's the David Blaine of fish. I'm going to give it a couple of weeks and see how it grows out. In the meantime, I'll just use lots of product. Now where did I put that mega hold gel?

Is It Hot In Here Or Is It Just You?

Yep, another week goes by in Albany, and you know what that means. Mother Nature flips the switch from "Muggy and Oppressive" to "Arctic and Frostbite Inducing." But I jest... somewhat. True, I've only been on this earth for a few months, but I've already made note of one thing; there are only two seasons in this town.

When it comes down to the season we're facing (I call it "Fallinter"), it's actually not that bad. It's been Hades-like for so long, that it makes me feel good to snuggle into my reindeer sweater, throw another couple of twigs on the fire and ask TaTa if he'd like another mini-marshmallow in his mini-cocoa. But then something strange happens in a few months. I recall March of 2008 as if it were yesterday... I was rolling in some leaves and watching my breath billow away as I sang See Me, Feel Me by The Who when all of a sudden my sweatshirt was sticking to me, there was a haze in the air and middle aged neighbors were in Daisy Dukes and black socks. Did someone spike my water bottle? It was suddenly July.

Thank goodness I'm a hamster and not a dog. I spend most of my time inside enjoying God's greatest gift to man - air conditioning. My owners despise the heat as much as I do, so it means snuggling under a washcloth and trying to keep my nose warm... which is tough since I have a wet nose and all.

Pinwheel of the Valkries

I know, it's been a while, hasn't it? I'd tell you I was abducted by aliens and probed in ways that you'd never believe in a million hamster years, but that would be a lie. What if I told you a major top-secret government experiment had me at Area 51 for the past week? Nah, that's a lie too. In truth, someone slipped me what is commonly called a Mickey Finn.

Don't ask me where it came from or when I ate it. Near as I can figure it was mixed amongst my yummy food pellets and wheat germ. After lunch last Wednesday, I vaguely remember one of the kids picking me up, but it was kinda in slow motion. At the time I thought it was just a slow kid, but now I think it might have been the vile drug. As a result, this past week has been a blur of tangerine trees and marmalade skies. On the one hand it was kinda cool. There was one day when I thought I could stop time. Then the next day I was sure, and I mean sure, that I had x-ray vision. You'd think that would be cool, but not if I could see all the way to your liver.

When I came to yesterday, the sky moved from a purple haze to sailor's delight. I blinked twice to get my bearings. For a split second I thought I saw TaTa calling me to a great light. I blinked twice again and it turned out to just be one of the kids picking his nose. Drugs are bad.

School Daze

Ah, that first day of school. All of the new khakis, the fresh haircuts, the runny noses. The downside to this fresh new start? The car ride to school almost made me cover my wood shavings in half-digested lettuce. Oh man, can't they develop some kind of seat belt for living organisms other than people? They did it for really short people, why can't they do it for really buff hamsters? But I digress.

By snack time I pretty much had the whole class figured out - who was going to be the stuffy princess, who would never help clean up, who would be the tattler - you know the drill. A nice group of kids... except for this one. He just kept eyeballing me. It not only freaked me out, it also kind of reminded me of when they have documentaries on serial killers. Remember how they always talk about the fact that they started off killing mice and cats. You know, he's the "quiet" kid. I just hope the teacher doesn't leave me alone in the room with him.

My goodbye to TaTa for the fall was short - he's not big on long goodbyes. I can't say I blame him. But at least he had the water in his bowl to mask his tears. I should be the one really crying anyway. I'm not going to be able to catch up on Young and the Restless until like December 19th. Man, I sure hope Victoria's baby doesn't belong to Rex.

Leave The Light On

Did you hear that? Over by the window. I think it's hungry...

Sorry, I've been a little on edge ever since watching Re-Animator the other night. It looked like a lot of fun when, before the opening credits, this doctor's eyes bugged out of his head, but by the time the dude re-animated his girlfriend's cat I kept looking behind me in case the Bogeyman was watching too. It's too bad because I used to like scary movies.

When I was fresh out of my embryonic sack (and I'll wager TaTa was no more than a guppy) I can remember being thrilled as sleep-away camp girls ran from slashers and burn victims chased dreamy schoolkids. Those days are done. Nowadays I can't watch Rachel Ray anymore because every time she opens that oven I just know something's gonna pull her right into it.

I don't think TaTa gets as freaked out as I do only because I don't get the impression he can hear the dialogue very well from underwater. Try it sometime. The next time you're in the pool, warn a friend who just dove under that there's a guy in a hockey mask about to remove your other friend's left kidney with an old spoon. All you'll get when he resurfaces it a complaint about the chlorine content.

Oh, My Head

Shhh... not so loud. It hurts to even type. My tank keeps spinning when I close my eyes. Why didn't I say no to that last Mojito? I'll tell you why. TaTa makes a mean Mojito, that's why. And after four in a row, I wasn't asking too many questions.

It's all our owner's fault. If they hadn't left the liquor cabinet open with a copy of The Happy Hiccup Bartender's Guide wide open, then this never would have happened. And besides, I was just the accomplice. I only provided materials to TaTa and he's the one who held the shaker. I was no more than Igor to his Dr. Frankenbooze. Maybe it was the laughs. Maybe it was the danger of getting caught. Maybe it was the fact that a fish was mixing Goldschlager cocktails. Who knows? Was it a good time though? Oh yeah, baby.

After TaTa kicked it up a notch, we abandoned the Tom Collins mix and headed straight for a few Harvey Wallbangers. Those got old pretty fast, so we chilled in front of the TV with a few beers - you know, to help rehydrate. Then it was onto Mojitoland, population: us. I don't remember much after that except when I sang Macho Man.

Now I just need to figure out how to fill the bottles back up to the Sharpie line with TaTa's tank water.

A Kleenex Would Be Useless

Power, compassion, capital. These things are all important. These things make up the world in which we live, the world we thrive to protect. And each facet is as important as the others. Each is weakened when the others are broken like the mighty oak that has stood for one hundred years and is split in an instant by lightning (which, by the way, is 1.21 jiggawatts of electricity. That's enough to help you travel through time if you ever need it). 

Today these things mean nothing to me. 

My friends, I have stared into the abyss. Oh, yes. Do you want to know what it looks like? It's kinda dark and swirly with sparkles, but that's not important right now. What is important is that it also looks like a friend of yours who is only a few feet away with a head cold.  Poor little guy. All I can do is watch, helpless. The few feet between us had might as well be a million miles. But maybe that's a good thing. When he sneezes it just kinda floats in front of him like a mini-jellyfish. I hope he gets better before he gets worse, especially when considering how small he is. I assume "worse" would only mean burial at sea. TaTa, I salute you.

A Whole Lotta Hamster

What's today? Hump day? Nice. This has been one long week for me, and TaTa has been all in my grill. But rather than just show him the smackdown, I'm gonna be the bigger hamster and turn the other whisker. Who has time to start a fight when I've got rollerballing to do, anyway?

Have I previously mentioned how much I totally dig rollerballing? I don't know if that's what it's actually called, but I know it makes me tingle in places I won't tell you about when I get to zip around in it. You should see me. The wind in my fur... I don't wanna brag, but I'm pretty sure I come close to breaking the sound barrier or something. If I keep working at it, after a while I'll bet light itself won't even be able to escape the pull of my force. The only thing holding me back is that paneled wall I keep cracking into. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

On another note, who do you think invented those flakey-flake things fish eat? I watch our owners sprinkle that stinky stuff all over TaTa like rose petals and he chows down. Seriously, who thought that was a better idea than throwing a chicken bone in there or something? And what do goldfish in the wild eat? Something tells me those flakey-flake things aren't just plucked off trees - assuming there are trees underwater, I wouldn't know. This whole thing makes my head hurt. I'm gonna go grab a piece of dried corn.

This Is Sweet

Dig it, my owner got this killer picture of me working on this blog. Nice bedspread, huh? It's kinda foo-foo le fem for me, but the folks who own this place don't ask me to contribute to the rent, so I keep quiet. Notice the absence of an actual keyboard? That's because I only have claws and, worst of all, no opposable thumbs. Because of this I can't pick up a mug of coffee either. I know, stinky, right?

I usually wait until everyone is asleep to kick it old school style on my laptop, but I just couldn't nod off yesterday afternoon and decided to fire this baby up. The consequence of which was getting this evidence snapped. Oh well. On the plus side, my dopey owner left the camera behind - uber sweet, my good man. I stashed it under the bamboo fondue bowl I eat out of. This means instead of you having to just imagine what our life is like, I'll be able to hopefully provide some visuals. It'll be like reading War and Peace with cute pictures (of the peace part, not the war part).

Speaking of photos, not five minutes after the dude left the room,

I snapped this one of TaTa. I knew he was a big swimmer, all into doing laps and stuff, but who knew he was such a Renaissance fish? I guess he's one of those guys you hate in high school who are on the football team and can play cello. I wonder what fish rules for soccer are? I mean, are you not allowed to use your dorsal fin?

And We're Off!

So in my desperation for some way to express ourselves to the world (okay, just me - TaTa can't type), I realized there was no better way than to start a blog! Why limit my hamster-self to a maximum of 1,000 characters in some facebook post when I can go on and on about all the exciting things TaTa and I share daily.

Normally, my relationships have been strained. After all, I'm nocturnal. That means for the most part my friendships are limited to bats and owls - both of whom would rather have me for dinner than invite me to dinner. Then one day, my owners plopped a water filled glass bowl on the dresser next to me, and my life has never been the same. He's awesome - I mean the dude swims like all the time. Even when I've burrowed down for like four hours, and get up to drain the main hamster vein at around 3AM... there he is swimming. Seriously, the guy is almost hypnotic. An Olympian or something.

On the down side, trying to communicate with my only friend has been difficult so far, and that's been a pretty big downer. At first, I thought it was me. I've always been a little self conscious that way (ever since I was old enough to notice that my brothers and sisters were picked for maze running before me). But then when I saw that TaTa got some new roommates and it was only a matter of a few days before they were, um, eliminated, I knew it must have been because he'd rather chill with me than a couple of Betas.

Unfortunately, I've only just gotten to know the guy for a few weeks, and word on the street is that I'm headed off to some nursery school for the duration of the fall. Sure, I'll see him again at the holidays, but that makes for a long, mean few months in between. There are only so many times I can run through the same tunnel without going all Oedipus and scratching my eyes out. That's on top of the chronic fear that some four year old will think I'm a fun plush toy. If only there were some way to bust outta this joint and take my buddy with me. That's tough considering he breathes underwater and all. Humans have it easy.