Until Next Time, Cap

Those last days at home are so crystalized. A week before she left, Puhg was at a concert, so we had a girls' night in. I made popcorn and watched _______ with her snuggled on my chest. I thought the movie was terrible and this bothers me, that the last film we ever watched together was so stupid. Even though she wouldn't know that. When it ended I played our song in the living room.

I don't remember how it became our song. I think I happened to be holding her while some 90s Spotify playlist looped. I danced with her fuzzy self and sang along "I'll never let you go, I'll never let you go." I found myself humming it all the time to her. A calming lullaby before she was comfortable with us. Hard to believe she came so frightened and jumpy, eventually a puddle in our hands. It was past midnight when Puhg's keys jangled in the door. Her ears perked as they always did.

5 AM Sunday I shuffled out to the living room as I often do when I can't sleep. She curled up into my lap as I read for two hours. I cried--unsure if I was imagining something was off or not. Puhg and I went on a long walk. We finally got a vet appointment, days away. At night she was eating apples again. In the morning we woke up our favorite way--hearing the water bottle click. But just a few hours later everything changed.

She was Sick. I called all over LA for help. She was manic then tired, climbing upside down then unable to hold her head up. Chewing then tossing her pellets around. We found a hamster ER, and flew there, her in a shoebox despising every bump and turn. A team whisked her away for urgent care.

We sat for hours watching dogs, cats, and one wheezing hedgehog come in. A guinea pig didn't make it. I didn't notice the time pass even though I had nothing to do but wonder if I'd ever see my dear one again. We were relieved she made it. The doctor recommended an overnight stay for pneumonia, antibiotics, oxygen. We were led to the back, tapped on her glass, told her it would be okay. Would it?

Days of waiting for "the call" gave me a permanent stomachache. I typically have healthy boundaries with my phone. I often leave it for short errands or keep it face down with friends. But not last week. I had it on full volume next to me 24/7. The doctor would call in the morning, then in the evening. They were kind, bright professionals who referred to my beloved with a chuckle: she is quite round or the little lady. We feared for a buzz off-schedule, meaning the worst. I made my ringtone "Bette Davis Eyes" last year. I thought it was funny. It was no longer funny.

When we visited two days later she was different. Exhausted and white. We held her and hoped. We gave her her ham house and a blueberry, which she ate slowly. I willed her to be better. We agreed to a bill for more everything. We took photos. I look horrible or maybe just like the saddest I've ever been. We cancelled Thanksgiving travel and spent the day quietly, vaguely tossing around the idea of a movie we wouldn't see. At 6 the call came: she improved! She ate some, seemed a little more energized, dialed down the oxygen! Her team would continue this plan. Oh, the hope. The puffing rising hope. She'll be home tomorrow.

But tomorrow her situation worsened. And would we like to come by, sooner than expected. I sobbed and put together a respectable outfit. Black pants, the sweater she chewed through the day she came home, my hamster headband. Filled my purse with seeds and fruit and cheese.

Agreeing to euthanize her was awful. Even now delusion creeps in. She couldn't comfortably breathe without an oxygen tank, and she couldn't really drink, and she seemed confused, but what if we'd just tried to take her? Maybe it was simply too bright in that new cage. Maybe there weren't enough shavings. Maybe it was all a mistake. We sat with her, held her, told her everything we could. But was it enough time? She was struggling for too long as is. But was it enough time? Was it enough time? She picked up the cheese but was too fatigued to chew. Herself only two weeks earlier would be shocked. She never passed up cheese. She never even stored it. Cheese is meant to be snacked immediately. Once we gave her a peanut and she shoved the whole thing in her pouch and darted to the back corner of her cage. It became a mantra for us: take the peanut and run. She managed to nibble at a blueberry, her last. She was sedated with a shot, her last memories of us before the finale. My head shrieked this isn't real. Was it enough time? 

I hate life going on. I've become small. I hate how the days build on themselves. I held her yesterday two days ago three days ago four days ago a week ago. She was carried away in a daze, going to the big wheel in the sky. And I also hate the big wheel in the sky.

She bit me one time, a year ago. It was so unexpected I yelped and plopped her back in her cage. After I washed the blood down the drain I realized she was limping. Poor thing had sprained her foot, lashed out in fear. We took away her toys to heal, I bandaged my finger. After a week she was scampering again. All that remained was a mark on my nail. A crack from her sharp teeth. I watched that crack move up and up over the months. A kind of calendar. Until one day I didn't notice it had left me at all.

It was a bright afternoon. Should we do anything? Puhg asked. I had put on extra sunscreen that morning. I didn't know why. He suggested the beach and I said, yeah, sure, why not? We never go to the beach, but we were 20 minutes away. We walked to the sparkling ocean. I drew her name in the sand. It would be washed away but not that I'd see. When it was time to go, we got back in the car and the wind knocked out of me. Blaring over the radio--that obscure 90s hit. I'll never let you go. I'll never let you go.

I can't stand mornings. I can't coming home. I got a new ringtone. There's no one to eat the vegetable scraps from dinner. I can't stand going to bed.

I have 300 videos of her because how could I not? They help. She was a true individual--so chonky and bossy but ultimately sweet. Unlike every other hamster I've had (angels to be sure), she loved to be pet and held and snooze on us. She communicated with nips and sounds. She brusked when happy and purred when alert and had trained us to give her a treat when she squeaked. She and I would have long long talks at night. Some of the videos are short--a few seconds of her running or cleaning. Others are long, a whole grooming session, minutes of her cozying into my shoulder, but they always end before I want them to.

I remember the stupid things, the mood rings, the bracelets and the beads

Nickels and dimes, yours and mine, did you cash in on your dreams?