Another One Bites The dust.

Sadly our pet population has decreased by one, but that still leaves us twenty critters so we haven't lost our "Crazy Zoo" designation yet.  It was one of  Lindsay's hamsters that kicked off.  I have to admit I am fond of the hamsters, and I have always sided with my kids against my husband when they wanted to bring another one (or any pet for that matter) into the house, so I was sorry when Honey the hamster died of old age.

Lindsay of course didn't want to touch the body, and Rob wouldn't have anything to do with it dead or alive, so it was up to yours truly to find a box and dispose of the corpse. I have to admit, as much as I like the hamsters, I did have to laugh when I hauled it's cold lifeless body out of the cage, because this one was in the cliched throws of rigor-mortis (go figure, that phrase wasn't on my spell check), flat on it's back, all four legs in the air, toes curled up, and it's mouth fixed in a menacing grimace. That is my sick sense of humour showing, so my apologies to hamster lovers everywhere. Moving on, I found a small box, fill it with bedding, gently place the hamster inside, taped everything up, and leave it to one side awaiting burial.

Rob came in and saw the box sitting on the counter. "Couldn't you find a smaller box ?" he complained,. "Do you have any idea how big a hole I am going to have to dig?".  What was he expecting, a custom sized container ? Honestly, the box wasn't that big, it was about the size of two hard back novels. I tell you, considering the average age of a hamster is only two years, I think if some budding entrepreneur cornered the market in hamster coffins, they'd strike it rich. My own personal Einstein then asks why we can't stick the corpse in a sandwich bag. Honestly, that man has no class.

Finally, after much grumbling, Rob grabs the box, muttering under his breath and goes outside, with the kids in hot pursuit,  to perform the burial. The next thing I hear is Lindsay scream, and I look out to see that Rob has taken matters into his own hands, or in this case feet, and stomped on the box to flatten it. Yet it is I who have been accused of not having a sensitivity gene. Thank goodness, the tape held and the box stayed more or less intact. I can only imagine the years of therapy sessions my children are going to have to endure in order to turn them into normal functioning beings.  It is obviously way too late for my husband.