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.