Nun Night Gnasher

“Come and look at Gnasher” said Accountant for the fiftieth time since Gnasher had arrived the previous day. “No thanks, Sweetheart” I replied. It was going to take more than a back flipping hamster to entice me out from under the cosy depths of my 15 tog goose down duvet.

“No, seriously, come and look” he repeated. “There’s nothing that hamster can do that I haven’t seen already” I said wearily, having spent most of the weekend ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ in all the right places as my nephew put his furry birthday present through it’s paces.

Accountant and Chickie had both thoroughly enjoyed the ‘Gnasher Show’, gleefully watching him roll around the room in his yellow ball as my nephew proudly commentated.

“Just come and look” said Accountant, insistently. “This better be good” I grumbled, begrudgingly poking two winceyette clad legs out from underneath the covers.

On entering the guest room where Gnasher had spent a comfortable weekend, Accountant was in the corner, his peanut shaped head craning over the base of the cage. “Look” he whispered, gesturing me closer. “What?” I whispered back, the lapse into undertones casting a sinister mood. “Do you think he’s dead?” Accountant asked suddenly. Unamused by Accountant’s attempt at practical trickery, I launched into my “don’t ever get me out of bed again unless there’s chocolate involved” speech. Accountant interrupted my ranting, just when I was at my most outraged. “I’m not joking” he cut in gravely. “He’s not breathing. Look!”.

As I reluctantly closed my mouth and inspected the red fur ball, curled in the corner of its cage, it struck me that he had been in that exact spot when Chickie had loudly bid him ‘Nun night’ five hours earlier. “May be hamsters don’t need to breathe when they sleep?” I offered hopefully. Accountant shook his head. Unable to believe or accept that Gnasher, at two months of age, could have expired on my watch, I became desperate. “Poke him” I said. Accountant prodded a finger into the strawberry blonde fur. Nothing.

“Perhaps he’s hibernating?” I tried, still optimistic that Gnasher was just a heavy sleeper. “Pick him up” I suggested helpfully. “I’m not picking him up!” said Accountant in disgust. “You pick him up!” he added. “No way!” I yelped in horror, backing away from what I was gradually coming to realise was rodent remains. “It’s your nephew’s hamster” Accountant kindly pointed out. “My dad wouldn’t expect my mum to pick up a dead hamster” I muttered, hoping to shame him into action. Ignoring me, Accountant began shaking the cage. “Well, if he wasn’t dead, he is now” I said, secretly quite pleased by his over vigorous jigging which seemed like an excellent cause of death to share with family members, leaving me innocent of all involvement.

“It’s dead” declared Accountant, with the self-assurance of a mortician. “He can’t be!” I said, incredulously. “He’s definitely dead” Accountant repeated slowly, no doubt wondering whether I would apply this level of denial to all unsavoury episodes I encountered in life. “Maybe he’s revivable” I squeaked as my panic levels rose. “I saw Eddie Murphy revive a rat in Dr. Doolittle. He gave it CPR”. Accountant shook his head again.

Glancing down at Gnasher, a ball of lonesome ginger fluff, I finally allowed myself to accept that Accountant might, for once, be right. Tears welled in my eyes as I looked at his little blue house that he’d never snuggle into again and the Willy Wonka style plastic tube that he’d been wedged into when he’d arrived.

As I began to sob for the vermin I barely knew, I wondered how my nephew would take the news that his beloved Gnasher would be leaving our care in a body bag. The crying stepped up a notch as I pictured his devastation as my Sister informed him that Accountant had shaken his cage just that little bit too hard. Then I imagined Chickie’s expectant little face as he requested to visit his new fuzzy friend, ‘NASHSHER” the next morning.

Accountant put a comforting arm around his now hysterical wife, blaming her hormone imbalance for the theatrical reaction.

The next morning, I cast a pair of red and swollen eyes over a still dead Gnasher, having hoped that my prayers alone may have been enough to resurrect him during the night. Closing the door behind me, I went into Chickie’s room. “Mum-mmmy” he shrieked excitedly. “Yes, Sweetheart” I replied, lifting him out of his cot for a cuddle. “NASHSHER” he said. “Gnasher’s asleep, Sweetheart” I replied, his innocence touching my heart, making me well up all over again. Now committed to spending the rest of the day a puffy wreck, I let the tears roll down my cheeks, wondering how I could stop the day coming along that would leave my little boy broken hearted.

Chickie looked at me and cocked his head to one side. “Choo Choo?” he enquired, Gnasher forgotten. “Let’s go watch the Choo Choo’s” I replied, kissing his little head, grateful that, for now, there was nothing more to be said.