Tuesday's Traumatic Childhood Stories: Hamsters are Lousy Pets

Tuesday's Traumatic Childhood Stories:

Hamsters are Lousy Pets

When I was nine my pet hamster, Butterball, bit me. It was the middle of a perfect day during the summer and I thought he (or she-it didn't really matter) would enjoy playing Robots versus army men in the backyard.

Dragging a canvas back pack containing a lifetime of treasures, I made a dramatic, but urgent entrance into the family living room where Butterball took residence, much to mom's disgust, in a clear-plastic tank with built in lemon colored exercise wheel. From the canvas back pack containing my life, emerged a menacing robot/jet plane, Starscream of the Decepticons! He was intimidating in his robot forum and I guess Butterball thought so too because when I open the flimsy, chewed door and made way for Starscream to enter Butterballs' cage then walked the evil juggernaut up to the sleeping hamsters bed, Butterball barely opened his eyes before lashing out with his cartoon-like front teeth. But he missed the malicious robot and bit my index finger. It was an accident I’m sure.

The robot escaped my hands as I reeled back with an “ouch" and immediately put the finger in my mouth. Removing my finger from safety, I watched with the tension as a bright pool erupted and flowed down my index finger. I didn't, yet, lose my cool demeanor for I had a little medical training at my young age.

Based on many hours studying a documentary called M.A.S.H., I had to apply pressure to the wound. That's what Hawkeye would do. That's how my mother found me; standing in the bathroom, applying pressure with her decorative pearl towels. Now they were lightly blood-stained, decorative pearl towels that once perched mute on a wall towel bar, never to be touched. In my haste of getting medical treatment, I forgot you don’t really use the decorative towels because they were just for looks.

Molly Jane, world's best hound

Mom screamed. I thought it was because I ardently used the decorative pearl towels, but it turned out to be the blood. She grabbed my wrist and grabbed the phone and called the local Emergency Room.

I started crying at the thought of going to the doctor or the emergency room because that ALWAYS meant a shot was involved. I’d rather take my chances bleeding than take a needle to the skin.

To make a long story short, now I’m a dog person.