Little did my mother know when she bought my two brothers a hamster each on Tuesday that it would set about a chain of events that would end in the one of the hamsters’ demise by Friday.
As she relayed the story to me over the weekend, my mouth gaped open in amazement and disgust.
The boys had been playing in their room Thursday night, when suddenly Austin comes into the living room in tears. “What’s wrong?” my mom asked.
“My hamster is dead,” Austin replied.
“What?” she demanded. “How did that happen?” Having recently had to deal with the boys burning down the neighbors’ fence, I’m sure she jumped to a number of conclusions. But Austion wouldn’t answer.
“You can tell me,” she coaxed. “It’s okay.”
Between sobs, Austin finally told her that he and Alex had been tossing the hamsters onto the bed in their room, when the accident occurred. And by tossing, I’m guessing he meant bouncing it off the ceiling. Anyway, one mis-throw, and Austin’s hamster missed the bed altogether. It hit the concrete floor, killing it.
Serial killers torture animals, I thought to myself. My brothers torture animals. Hmn…
“I’ll bet the other hamster doesn’t make it another week,” I told my mom.
“We’ll see,” she said. “I’m not buying them any more pets after this.”
