The Hamster Diaries 4

My relationship with the hamsters quickly resolves to something like this: I periodically walk past the cage, say something like "hello hamsters," and, all excited and full of love, lean down and peer through the bars. The excitement then turns to disappointment as I realise the hamsters are hidden away out of sight. I tap on the cage to see if I can rouse them but nothing happens. I do it again, still nothing. Finally I exclaim "stupid animals!" and walk away.

It starts to seem as if I have spent thirty quid on a device for making piles of tissue paper tremble. The trembling, I suspect, is caused by the hamsters curled up together and smaning as I become more and more vexed.

They are vexing me, but not for the reason they think. By the end of the weekend it becomes abundantly clear that I am allergic to hamsters. This is not a surprise; I am allergic to cats and rats and pollens and too much dust and almost anything that makes your eyes sting and your nose run. When my brother owned a cat it only took me an couple of hours in his house before I was wheezing like the kid out of Signs; at the heart of some hayfever seasons I have produced so much snot I started to worry about dehydrating, so much snot that it was full time occupation getting rid of it, so much snot that protracted sneezing fits exhausted me to the point of sobbing. The hamsters do not affect me anything like that bad, but I know the effects too well not to recognise them. I pop an antihistamine pill and decide that something must be done, this should be a solvable problem, after all I am experienced at managing allergies, and how much allergen can two such tiny creatures produce anyway! Whatever, their ability to circulate whatever it is the they are circulating around my bedroom must be curtailed, in short, they need a glass tank, not a breezy cage.

As it happens I have the day off on Monday and renew my search for the deluxe tank the girlfriend chose, the much vaunted Perfecto Vivarium, the custom made split level luxury hamster palace; crystal clear glass rimmed with Darth Vader black, matching ladder and ventilated lockable lid supplied as standard. A snip at just under fifty British pounds but nothing is too good for my hamsters, and for my nose. I find a likely looking place in Feltham and drive down. They have one, right size, good price, everything.

The thing is enormous. I stand alone in the shop and stare at it, it is huge. It is not the footprint that bothers me, I measured that out and planned the space for it weeks ago, it is the height. The thing is sixteen inches tall, it has three levels above the ground floor. A hamster is not one of nature's great thinkers, they have very poor eyesight, and they lack that sniffing sonar thing that rats have; they are prone, in short, to blindly wandering off large drops.

I walk outside and ring the girlfriend. She, veteran of many hamsters, convinces me that they will be okay. I buy it.

It is obvious that moving is no fun for the hamsters. First they are rather rudely awakened, then everything they could hide behind or under or in is systematically taken away from them, and then they are cornered and grabbed by the giant hand which they are still, sadly, petrified of. In the new cage Porthos promptly runs and hides in the familiar wooden house. Aramis, brave little fellow that he is, runs around and explores before following his brother.

Later in the evening both hamsters come out and run around, they explore every corner thoroughly and repeatedly, they dig in the litter, they squeeze into tiny spaces, they try hopelessly to pull themselves up onto the ledges before scrabbling up the cardboard tubes I have provided. Porthos proves himself an ace in the wheel, happily racing it around and around.Aramis, with great effort and much bum wiggling, manages to climb into the food bowl and proceeds to kick all the food out so he can later scramble about for it on the floor. I sit on the edge of the bed and watch them for over an hour, rapt. They are better than telly.