This post title is partly in deference to the great bluesman Dutchie Mason, who died yesterday (five years to the day after my father died), but it also pays tribute to the inimitable, fearless, furry and ferocious Hammy, aka Catsnack, the Terminator hamster who, despite apparent terrible physical condition and obvious terminal ailment, refused to die.
Less than a month ago, I noticed the hamster sleeping more. When I pulled him from the cage for a little wake-up snuggle/run, he didn't feel right. He felt a little... lumpy. Over the next few weeks, the lumpiness increased and his fur started falling out. In my heart, I knew our little Hammy had developed some kind of terminal tumour disease, but kept pushing it from my mind until the week before Christmas. Seven days to the big day, with Maddie in the tub, I pulled little Hammy out for a check, and found a huge scabrous open sore on his belly. It was brown and festering. Stomach turning, I foisted him quickly back in the cage before Maddie got the inkling to take him out for a pat.
Two days later, with the little one safely back at her dad's, and Sean gone home to Cape Breton, I assembled my arsenal of peroxide and Qtips, girded my loins and pulled him out again. As I was trying to clean up the first ulcer, I found another, more perilous looking than the last, over his heart. With my heart both pounding and sinking, I tucked him back in his cage.
It was clearly time for some rodent euthenasia.
While I pride myself on being terribly pragmatic and hard-hearted, this would prove much harder than I could imagine.
My first thought was to inject him with the left over cat insulin from my little post-diabetic Oscar, who was sent to cat heaven just a month ago. It's been a hard autumn. I don't know if the needle didn't actually go in or the insulin was bad, or it just didn't work on hamsters, but it didn't faze him in the slightest.
My next plan was based on every teen suicide attempt ever shown on TV. I'd give him enough drugs that he could drift off to sleep and die peacefully. No prob. I figured the hamster weighed a quarter pound at most so one gravol, one extra strength Tylenol, and an ASA (a blood thinner, like Warfarin!) should be enough. Sean gave advice about how to inject these, but I wasn't sure I could grind them fine enough, so I mashed them up in peanut butter. Like a good little sick hamster, Hammy gobbled the wad. An hour later, I checked to find the hamster stretched out beside the food dish, head wedged between the dish and the cage wall. Breathing a sad sigh of relief, I watched a minute more.... only to find he was still breathing. Ok, I could wait.
Meanwhile, I had to get a few things at Walmart and while there, it occurred to me that there was an entire industry developed to deal with killing rodents, so I ought to make use of their expertise. I bought the charmingly named "Mouse Treat", millet seed laden with a stronger poison... just in case.
The next day he was back in his nest, and I assumed he had dragged himself over to die... but no. A tap on the cage was rewarded with the typical indignant half-asleep hamster look. Hm. Not dead. I poured the dish full of Mouse Treat and left for work.
That night, half the dish was gone. Again sorrowful, but still a bit wary, I lightly tapped. I got the look. Still not dead. I added more Mouse Treat and crushed three more gravol in peanut butter.
That night, I slept fitfully. The next morning, he was still breathing. Unbelievable. I went to work in a daze. My ex-husband's mother had once had a horrible experience with gerbils--a cageful went ferile apparently and had to be extinguished forcefully. The procedure involved a bag and a hammer. The picture of Julian's mom--a minister--carrying out this summary execution had never been clearer to me than it was becoming now.
My brother called with helpful advice: tie the thing in a plastic bag and snap it against the wall. Great. I have a strong stomach, but this did not seem feasible to me. I knew by now that Hammy was suffering, though, so drastic measures were going to be needed.
Please understand that I somehow scraped up $65 to have my beloved Oscar dispatched with dignity and care at the vet's. I'd had Oscar for 13 years. Hammy was 2. And it was Christmas--I had no money left. The vet was not an option.
On my way home from work, my plan congealed. It would need to be done quickly, so as to not lose nerve. After all, another week of slow poisoning would not only ruin Christmas, it would be inhumane. I came home, dropped my bags, grabbed a plastic bag, and went to the hamster cage. Hammy was there, breathing laboured, sores oozing. I hope he knew that release was coming.
I tied a knot in the bag, and ran down to the garbage can. We keep a large block of cement on top of the can, to keep out critters. I placed Hammy in his bag on the ground and grabbed this block... lined it up... deep breath, don't think... and dropped it on the bag. At the last moment I faltered, causing the block to shift and --oh horrors--it just nicked him. From the bag emanated a heart-rending squeak, and I gasped, grabbed the cement, and struck again.
Silence.
I was breathing as if I had just run a marathon, as I stared at the flattened plastic bag. A dreadful feeling was creeping up on me, like the way nausea seems to crawl from your stomach to your throat. My breathing was becoming ragged. Like Lady MacBeth, I imagined blood splattered on me. I caught up the bag, hurled it into the trash can, replaced the cement block on top... to safeguard from critters, an irony not lost on me.
As the sobs started to heave out of me, I ran inside before any well-meaning neighbor could come out to inquire what the matter was.
I do not think, in the cosmic scheme of things, it was at all a coincidence that the next-day's paper contained a fundraising appeal from the SPCA.
It will be a good loooonnnnnngggg time before I acquire any more damned animals.
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