heelers loses it completely

Evening at the Chateau.

I am playing with Number Two hamster.

The creature known as Fur Ham.

Creature is the kindest word I'm capable of using to describe her at present.

If she was a character in Star Trek, they'd call her an entity.

"Open fire on the entity Mr Worf!"

"I can't Captain! I'm paralysed with fear! She just bit me on the zorgonators."

Fur Ham is living proof that I am incapable of saying no to pet shop owners.

After the death of Old Ham, I put out an all points bulletin for a new one.

Two pet shop owners came up trumps around the same time.

I happily accepted Hamster Number One and forgot to inform my other supplier that the deal was now off.

If I'd been a little stronger I'd have told the second one to go fish anyway.

The way Fur Ham looked at me when I wandered unsuspectingly into that pet shop, I knew she was a mouse of strong convictions.

She looked like two inches of fur bound fighting fury.

Let me this way put it.

It was as though I had a premonition that this was one rodent I didn't need to bring home with me.

But I was too weak to reject the pet shop owner who was looking so pleased with herself as she proffered me the beast.

I had asked the owner to find me a hamster of character.

The owner had done so.

How could I reject her best efforts?

I'm just a genius who cain't say no.

So here we are.

There are now a brace of hamsters in residence at the Chateau.

In the living room we have mild mannered Hamster Number One, who styles herself Baby Ham, and lives just aft of the potted fern.

In the bedroom we have the bitingly satiric Fur Ham.

At least I presume she's being satirical when she bites me.

She doesn't know me well enough to really hate me.

Maybe she's a Muslim hamster and disapproves strongly of my humble attempts to convey to people the notion that the dysfunctions being unleashed worldwide from Islamic culture are a greater threat to humanity than what the Nazis or the Russian Communists inflicted on us in the last century.

Ho hum.

Definitely I should have called her Bitey.

For as she climbs across my hand this evening, she decides, as on many other evenings, for the umpteenth time in fact, to check if I'm edible.

"Arghhhhhh," I muse.

With a splendid mastery of spirit, I replace Fur Ham carefully in her cage.

Then I hop around the room, expleting merrily.

Between expletives I suck my wounded finger.

In the corner of the room the ghosts of the old 1970's rock band Blue Oyster Cult appear suddenly and begin singing a new version of their most catchy, nay incomprehensible, and, dare I say objectionable, hit.

I think the original was about suicide.

This version is pretty much about the same thing.

God between us and all harm, etc etc.

The Blue Oyster Cult sing:

"All our times are come

Here what's lost is won

Seasons don't fear the hamster

Nor do the wind and the sun and the rain

We should be like they are

Come on baby

Don't fear the hamster

You'll be able to fly

Don't fear the hamster

You'll become like they are

Don't fear the hamster

Baby take my hand

Nahhhh, nah, nah, na

Nerdle ner ner ner ner nern

Valentino's done

Here what's lost is won

Came a last night of sadness

And he knew that he couldn't go on

And the door was open and the wind appeared

The candle blew and then disappeared

The curtain flew and then she appeared

Singing

Don't be afraid

Come on baby

Don't fear the hamster

You'll be able to fly

Don't fear the hamster

Come on baby

And he had no fear

And he ran to her

He looked backward and saw

He had become like they are

Don't fear the hamster

Looked backward and saw

He had become like they are

He had taken her hand

Don't fear the hamster

You'll be able to fly

Forty thousand men and women everyday

Another forty thousand everyday

They don't fear the hamster

They have become like they are

And they get bitten on the hand

Nahhhh, nah, nah, nah, na

Nerdle ner ner nerrrrrr"