Christmas Shopaholic(105)

“Hello,” I say. “I’d like—”

“We’re closing soon,” he interrupts flatly. “You’d better be quick.”

“No problem. I’d like a hamster. And a cage. And food,” I add as an afterthought. “And whatever a hamster needs.”

“OK.” He nods. “What kind of hamster?”

“The…hamster kind.”

He gives me a look and leads me to a plastic cage full of hamsters in individual partitions, squirming about and eating food and doing hamster things. “Take your pick.”

“Right,” I say, trying to sound keener than I feel.

I mean, they’re basically rodents. I’m choosing to introduce a rodent into my house. But Minnie will love it, I remind myself. I have to focus on that.

I wonder what color she’d like. Maybe Luke could subtly find out? I get out my phone to call him—but there are no bars on my display. Drat.

“Yeah, our signal’s dodgy,” says the guy. “So which one do you want?”

I peer at the hamsters, trying to see them through Minnie’s eyes.

“Maybe that one,” I say, pointing to a beige one.

“That’s a male Syrian hamster. Want to have a closer look?”

He picks it up and proffers it to me—and I try to suppress my revulsion. “You ever looked after a hamster before?” he adds with a narrowed glance.

“Er…no. But I’ll follow all the guidelines,” I say hurriedly. “I’ll take good care of it. I promise.”

He gestures for me to take the hamster, and gingerly I do so. It’s furry and snuffly and scrabbly, with really sharp claws.

“Argh!” I say, as the hamster suddenly ends up on the table and starts running away.

“Don’t bloody let go!” says the guy in consternation, scooping the hamster back up.

“I didn’t mean to!” I say, mortified. “Sorry. It just took me by surprise.”

“You shouldn’t buy it if you can’t handle it,” he says disapprovingly, and I feel a spike of panic. Is he going to say I’m inappropriate to be a hamster owner? Is there some test and I’ve failed?

“I can,” I say fervently. “I can handle it. I promise.”

“OK, so hamster, cage, bedding, food…” He pauses. “You want any accessories?”

My head pops up in interest. Ooh. Accessories?

The guy shows me to a shelf of stuff, and I get quite excited. Who knew hamsters had so much gear? I choose an exercise ball, a “hamster cottage,” and a really cool tube contraption for the hamster to scamper about in. And I’m just dithering over a hamster seesaw when a terrible thought strikes me: My shopping delivery. My turkey. Shit. In all the flurry, I totally forgot. It’s coming in half an hour. I need to get home, pronto.

“OK,” I say hastily. “I’ve chosen. Done.”

I pay, then take everything out to the car in several journeys, because it’s pretty bulky. The last thing to take out is the hamster itself, in its cage, and I’m about to lift it up off the floor when I have an idea. I’ll take a quick picture and text it to Luke! I need to practice handling it, anyway.

I get down on my knees, reach for the squirmy little thing, and get it out, trying not to flinch. There. I’m better at this already. I mean, he’s quite cute, with his snuffly little nose. We need to think of a good name for him.

I take a photo and I’m carefully lowering him back into the cage, when the guy suddenly bellows, “Piss off!” on his landline phone to someone.

Which makes me jump. Which makes my grip on the hamster loosen for a nanosecond.

Just a nanosecond. But it’s enough. To my utter horror, before I can grasp him again, the hamster wriggles out of my hand and runs off over the floor. He stops and looks at me as though to say, “Ha ha!” (OK, I may be projecting), and I stare back, my heart beating hard.

I can’t admit I’ve dropped the hamster again. The guy will say I’m irresponsible and will never let me keep him. I’ll quietly catch him myself, I decide. I reach gingerly for the hamster, but he deftly evades my grasp. I make a bolder swipe, but this time he scampers right away, through an open side door.

Shit.

Crawling silently, I follow the hamster through the door and find myself in a dimly lit stockroom. I hastily push the door closed and look around. It’s only a small space. It’s contained. I’ve got to find this bloody hamster.

I listen for scrabbling, but I can’t hear anything. So I put on my phone’s flashlight function and swing it around the space, searching for the reflection of two beady little eyes. Nothing.

I suddenly notice a box of hamster treats on a nearby shelf and have a flicker of inspiration. I wrench it open, telling myself that I’ll buy it, and find some revolting pellets, which are presumably like caviar for hamsters.

There’s a big empty cardboard box nearby too. I turn it on its side and make a big pile of treats on the cardboard floor. Then I retreat to a squatting position, poised to move like lightning and trap the hamster. I feel like one of David Attenborough’s team, waiting to capture the Serengeti lion at the waterhole.

Except sometimes those teams wait for weeks, I recall.

No. Don’t think like that. I expect sometimes they only wait five minutes and the lion turns up. Exactly.