I stopped hissing (I no longer hiss when enraged, but most primitive hamsters do – it is a danger signal) and looked round. I was in a deep plastic bin with straight, shiny walls. I didn’t bother to entertain the Father, who was hanging over the top watching me, by trying to climb them – one look showed me it was useless. I simply crouched where I was, seething with fury. After a while the giant head above me vanished, and I heard his voice calling the children.
Soon their three faces were hanging above me. They were all grinning with excitement.
“How did you catch him, Daddy?” (Of course I didn’t understand the actual words then, but my imagination must be allowed some rein here.)
This question, put by Adam, was followed by a self-satisfied description of his brilliant coup by the Father. Meanwhile Guy’s little hand crept towards me, fingers temptingly extended. The middle one, as it approached my face, was just the perfect diameter for my mouth to enclose, and it must be remembered, in mitigation of the crime I then committed, that I had just been caught and imprisoned by one too big and well-gloved for me to revenge myself on. Nevertheless it was nothing less than wicked of me to sink my teeth into that little bare fingertip and I cannot now think of it without shame.
The truly awful shriek that followed simply shattered my nerves. I think it was the noise, more than the taste, that taught me my first lesson in manners. The Mother rushed in and carried Guy off. Adam and Mark began scolding me. The commotion was terrifying. Though I couldn’t then make out the exact words, I knew that everyone was angry with me, and that the Father was threatening me. All my own anger had melted away into fear and confusion.
I cowered down, but the inside of the plastic dustbin (that was where he’d put me) offered no hiding-place and I felt dreadfully exposed. Nothing is worse than having nowhere to hide. Even my eyes were hurt by the bright light, and I shut them. After a while the hubbub died down. I ventured to look up. The rim of the bin, far above me, was blank – all the faces had gone. I felt frightened and miserable. I ran round a few times and put my front paws up against those slippery unclimbable sides. No use. I crouched there, filled with a sense of hopelessness, for I had no experience to fall back on which might have told me what to expect.
I had fallen into a miserable half-sleep when something soft fell on me. Opening my eyes with a jerk of fright, I found myself covered with some light, soft stuff, which blocked off some of the light and gave me the feeling of being safe and hidden. I began at once to make a nest in it.
Once I glanced up. The Mother was hanging over the rim, watching me. She spoke to me, but not harshly. Considering I’d recently bitten her young one, I realise now she was showing a very forgiving nature. Also an understanding one, for when her natural anger cooled, she had realised what I needed most – bedding – and had given me some paper shavings.
Some time later she brought me a dish of food and some water, but by that time, I was comfortably asleep and I didn’t find it till I woke up in the evening.
Evenings are always my active time. I had had a good sleep, despite my upset, and when I’d had something to eat I felt ready for anything. And soon enough things started to happen.
Mark arrived. He was wearing gloves now, thick leather ones, though if he had but known it there was no need for them – nothing short of a direct attack on me would have induced me to bite him. Very cautiously he reached down and, after a short chase – I was not anxious to be picked up – caught and lifted me.
Now, I have said I don’t mind being held – not for long periods. But I don’t mind sitting in between two warm hands, well supported by the one below and gently stroked by the one above. This pleasant experience now happened to me for the first time. I was nervous of course, and trembled a good bit, but Mark has a feeling for animals and I sensed this at once, the way one can. He put his face close to me and his warm, boy-smelling breath came over me. I don’t know why, but being breathed on by a human gives one confidence, provided, of course, once does not instinctively sense danger. There was nothing menacing about Mark’s breath, and his face looked kind and interested.
We stared and breathed at each other for some moments. Then I tried to get away. I always do this after being held for a short time. It’s really no more than a natural restlessness. Mark endeared himself to me by understanding this. He relaxed his upper hand and let me run up his arm. He was wearing a woollen sweater which gave me ample footholds – I love climbing up rough knitted surfaces – and I was soon exploring his shoulders, poking my nose between his collar and his neck, and even sniffing around his pink ears. He wriggled and giggled. I suppose I was tickling him. After a while he lifted me down again, stroked me soothingly for a few minutes more, and then laid me gently on his knee.
Now it shouldn’t be thought that I had been deliberately lulling him into a sense of false security by not trying to escape before. I was too far from the ground then, and I knew it. But now he was sitting down and I had only to make a dash head-first down his trouser-leg and I was on the floor and running like mad.
Mark dived after me, but too late. I had dashed under the frill of a sofa-cover and by the time he had lifted it to peer underneath, I was already three pieces of furniture away, crouching beneath a desk. The next thing was an upright piano, but there was quite a gap between the desk and it, and I could see Mark’s shoes, turning slowly in the middle of the floor, watching for me to make a dash. I waited till the heels were towards me and then I ran. Ran! I skimmed. Mark just caught a glimpse of me and spun round, but too late! I was safely behind the piano and there was nothing he could do about it.
It was not a very well-made piano, and it was easy enough to get in through a hole in the back. The innards were fascinating, quite the most exciting playground I had even been in. Human athletes, whom I have seen on television, have gyms to exercise in, with all sorts of apparatus. Hamsters have pianos – at least, they should all have them, if humans were understanding enough or the hamsters themselves were cunning enough to escape and find them. I would certainly recommend a good upright piano to any hamster who fancied himself as an athlete.
It was in my piano that I first learnt muscle-control, agility, how to fall correctly, how to swing by front and back paws, how to jump horizontally, diagonally and perpendicularly and, of course, how to climb. I mean really climb, where some might find the going impossible. Nothing could be more useful, believe me, in the life of an escapologist who frequently has to fend and forage for himself. If I had not trained in the piano, I doubt if I could have navigated the vegetable rack, let alone climbed up into the biscuit drawer, three shelves up in the kitchen cupboard…But I must not get ahead of my story.
Well! If I had enjoyed my freedom in the Father’s workroom, how much more did I enjoy the fun of my freedom in the piano! I may say that before the night was out I had thoroughly explored most of its lower half, though I was not yet skilful enough to mount to its higher regions. I was fortunate in one thing. It should have been perfectly dark in there, for how could light get in? Yet it was not. Quite a lot of light filtered down from somewhere above, as if through a window, and, until the family (who had given up hunting for me) had gone to bed, switching off the lights, I was able to enjoy myself, clambering around swinging, diving, and so on, to my heart’s content.
When the darkness did come, I was able to come out of the piano (I was still small and supple enough in those days to squeeze through the holes around the pedals) and give the whole living-room a good going over before bedding down in the wastepaper basket among the bits of paper and cigarette packets. I was completely hidden and felt quite safe.
Alas! The short jump I had had to make to get down into the basket from the upholstered chair had misled me – I thought in my ignorance it would be equally easy to getout. But the sides of this container were not wicker, but metal, and thus in the morning I was speedily detected because of my frantic scrabblings among the rustling papers.
Back to the bin. But I was not in despair this time. Experience had taught me that opportunities for escape would present themselves if I waited patiently. And so they did.