They call it Winter White but I could never understand why—its fur was a well-known grey, and there was an indisputable black streak down its spinal centre. The only parts that were white at all were its underbelly, that no one would have seen were it not for the telltale white parts creeping at its sides.
When I was nine, my friend Estelle offered to give me a hamster after her hamster gave birth. I could choose from one of the two brothers. “Squeaker doesn’t bite and he is my favourite,” she told me, and so I chose him and took him home.
Squeaker was a kind and good boy. He would clean himself regularly in the sandbox; keeping his silver fur smooth and soft as sylph, keeping his smell pleasantly fragrant and earthy. He would go about his daily tasks with alacrity, diligently alternating between wheel-running, eating and letting me pat him to my heart’s content. Once in a while I would pick him out of his cage and set him on the wooden tiled floor. “Be free,” I would declare, then he would scurry as fast as his tiny legs could carry him until I pulled him back to the starting line before he got too far. (I’m sorry this is an unfair race dictated by my terms and conditions, Squeaker, but in the name of body fitness, hopefully you don’t feel too much bitterness?)
No one else in my family found him fascinating.
“Make sure you clean up all the wood shavings,” barked my mother.
“Stop bringing the hamster so close to me!” shrieked my sister.
“Always so smelly,” scoffed my brother.
Once when I went over to Estelle’s house, I brought Squeaker over. “Let’s have a brother reunion, they can race together,” I proposed excitedly, and she nodded in agreement, what a good idea! So we took out the two brothers and set them side by side. “Race,” we commanded.
The next thing I knew was—actually, I don’t know what the next thing was. All I knew was that horror was sinking its teeth into my skin as rapidly as Squeaker was doing to his brother. My docile pet had suddenly become a vicious monster I did not know. At twice the size of the other, Squeaker had the obvious advantage in the duel. Two hamsters morphed into one giant one.
Panicking, I pried Squeaker out of the bleeding ball and my friend saved the weakened and whimpering other. But Squeaker’s rage was still at a high. Mercilessly he chomped promptly on my finger.
It was the first time he had ever bit me. It was the first time an animal had ever bitten me.
My innocence and thrills of bonding with animals dissipated with my shrill, piercing cry. As the pain bolted through my fingers I impulsively gave my hand a vehement swing. Squeaker flung out and ran somewhere into a dark corner behind the cupboard. I wasn’t paying attention; all I cared about was the swelling pain in my hot and angry finger.
I dealt with Squeaker cautiously after that. In the unconsciousness of my mind I held how animals could become savage in the flick of a second, and I think that was how my phobia of hamsters evolved into one for cats and dogs for a very long time.
Still, when Squeaker died, I cried. Squeaker, Squeaker. We had many good times together; do you think they were good? We had a bit of tension sometimes; do you still harbour resentment? Do you love me, Squeaker? Or do you just remember?