Furry Fratricide with Cloud - The Carnivorous, Murderous Hamster

Despite wanting to on many occasions, I’ve only adopted a pet once. And it was an utter disaster.

I don't entirely blame myself - I wasn't told the full story behind his need for a new home. Had I been, I would've thought twice about allowing the tiny, furry ball of mayhem into my home.

The short version is that my friend's daughter had a hamster that, due to her increasing levels of homework, she no longer had the time to adequately care for. Meanwhile, I had two much younger daughters who had been pestering me for ages to get a pet. We could take the hamster off their hands, and onto ours: It seemed a win-win.

I should have been suspicious of the speed in which my friend said, 'Yes!' but I was just happy with my daughters' excitement at the latest addition to our household.

I should also have been suspicious at the manner in which my friend's daughter said 'goodbye' to the rodent the day they deposited him with us. If he had been a treasured pet, it wasn't obvious from the teenager's farewell. To be honest, she just seemed glad to see the back of him.

In addition to a very sizable, and elaborate, cage, my friend had also given us a range of toys, wheels, and other sundry items; he had more possessions than I did.

Once more I should have been suspicious that my friend declined my offer of money in return for all of this. Like her daughter, she just appeared to be relieved.

Although he already had a name when we adopted him, we re-christened him Cloud, because he looked like one. Albeit, a very small one. And the three of us now had a pet we could love, and pamper.

However, Cloud had other ideas.

For a start, Cloud didn't like to be handled.

As in, a lot.

As in, the moment you picked him up, he'd bite or scratch you.

For a creature as big as my palm, he had an uncanny ability to cause an unnecessarily large amount of pain. When I was a child, I was attacked by a German Shepard dog; it caused me less damage than a ten second cuddle with Cloud did.

It was as if he had replaced his tiny teeth, and teeny-weeny claws, with miniature razor blades. I'd rather have a massage off 'Nightmare on Elm Street's Freddy Krueger than let Cloud anywhere near my palms.

At one point, I'd seriously considering wearing an oven-glove when handling him. Actually, that's a lie; my very first instinct was to clad myself in a deep-sea diving suit. I think that this is when the absurdity of it all began to dawn on me: He was as big as my thumb, and we needed to wear PPE to touch him. Cloud was not a normal pet.

Then there was his nocturnal exercising.

The moment I closed my eye-lids, he came fully alive. He would career around his cage, throwing himself against whatever surface he could find. One night, having fallen asleep, I was woken by a series of outlandish crashes and bangs; I thought I was being burgled by a platoon of circus clowns who were being led by that girl from 'The Exorcist.'

No, it was just Cloud taking some exercise. Unable to sleep, I used to sit in the dining-room and watch him. He behaved as if he'd mainlined a mixture of caffeine and cocaine. He wasn't so much possessed, as thoroughly demented. At one stage, he ran up one of the walls of his home, scampered across the ceiling, and back down the opposite wall.

And then he did it again.

And again.

He was able to move his tiny legs so quickly, the laws of gravity didn't apply to him when he was in this manic phase.

However, the laws of audio-dynamics did; like his unnaturally vicious bite, he seemed to create a ruckus far greater than his tiny size. I refer you to my previous comment: A platoon of circus clowns being led by that girl from 'The Exorcist.'

Though, the more I think about this, the more I think I'm underplaying that: I'd heard quieter marching bands.

After the fourth sleepless night, the penny finally dropped: There was something a little bit wrong with Cloud.

I'd find out what a few days later.

In the meantime, in addition to the noise and the viciousness, there was another element to enjoy. Namely, his appetite. Not to put a too finer point on it, for a small creature, he certainly enjoyed his food. He was the rodent equivalent of Mr. Creosote from Monty Python's 'Meaning of Life.'

He imbibed more calories than I did. If I had put a gazelle's carcass in his cage, he would've stripped that faster than a school of piranhas could have...

Actually, I'm not being accurate there: He didn't just enjoy food, he enjoyed eating anything.

The straw bedding lining his cage? Gobble, gobble, gobble.

The little plastic toys dotted around his palatial home? Munch, munch, munch.

It was only a matter of time before he'd gnawed through the bars of his cage, and then started on us.

Except...

It never happened. Because a few weeks later, Cloud died.

I'd like to say he passed away peacefully in his sleep, only he didn't do anything peacefully. One night, he was making his usual din, only to suddenly fall silent. I'd learnt not to trust him, so the silence was unnerving. Armed with a cricket bat, in case he had finally managed to free himself, and I needed to fend him off , I crept downstairs.

He was lying, belly up, on the floor his cage.

I waited, watching, just making sure it wasn't a trick to get me to open the cage so he could attack me. After a few hours, I realized he wasn't playing dead: He was very much dead. He was an ex-hamster.

The three of us were sad; regardless of anything else, Cloud had been a living, breathing (though admittedly malevolent) living creature - we grieved him.

For a while anyway.

To be honest, I was more pleased with the money I was saving from not having to stockpile iodine, and sticking plasters. Also, the added bonus of being to sleep each night softened the blow.

A few days later, I informed my friend - the person who'd given us Cloud initially - of his demise. She didn't surprised.

"It was only a matter of time before it all caught up with him," she'd said.

"Only a matter of time before 'what' caught up him?" I asked.

There was an awkward pause.

"Well," she finally said. "When we originally got him, Cloud also had a brother."

I really didn't want to ask the question - I already knew I wouldn't like the answer. "What happened to him?"

"He died."

"Oh, poor, Cloud," I said, suddenly wracked with compassion for the little beasts' loss. "That must have been hard for him. How did he die?"

"Cloud ate him."

"Pardon?"

"Cloud ate his brother."

"Okay," was all I could manage.

"One night, I came downstairs to find Cloud chewing away on his brother's body."

"He... He... Did you not think about telling me this before you gave him to me?"

"Well, we've been trying to get rid of him for ages. But as soon as people found out he'd killed and eaten his brother, it put people off," my friend explained. "I thought you'd be more likely to take him if you didn't know."

She was right. Had I known, I wouldn't have let the noisy, foul-tempered, carnivorous, fratricide-committing monster anywhere near my home.

However, despite the chaos he brought with him, I'm also glad I did.

For a short time, the three of us had a pet we could love. Well, try to love: Cloud wasn't really interested in such things. But we tried. He may have added little that was positive, but he nevertheless added 'something.' For a short time, he changed the dynamic of our little family. And he showed me that my daughters were not only kind and caring (though I knew that anyway), but he also taught them how to love universally, and without expecting anything in return.

Cloud never loved us (I'm not sure his murderous little heart was capable), but we loved him, regardless of his biting / nocturnal exercising / fratricide (delete as applicable).

And, as a life lesson, I'm not sure there are many more profound. After all, what's more important than learning how to love without conditions? Everyone, every living creature, deserves to be loved.

Even ones as unhinged as Cloud.

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