I fear that I may have finally crossed a threshold of no return. An act so heinous that there is no, and should not be, any consideration of forgiveness. Throughout my life I have sensed that this would one day happen, almost as if it were predestined. And now it is here. Last night I ate Sparky, my son’s hamster.
I won’t blame the tequila, although if this was a crime – and it certainly must be – it would be an accessory before, during and after the fact. I’d like to interject here that if you are going to partake of hamster, I think tequila is definitely the way to go. A dash of lime and a pinch of salt and you’re all set. Those who swear by Beaujolais know not of what they speak.
As I sat alone later last night, accompanied only by the remaining tequila, mulling over my act of hamstebalism, I had to wonder about the nature of my extraordinary meal. Just how weird is it to munch junior’s hamster? Am I the only one to have ever done this; am I the first? Or are there more of us? If more, how many more? Indeed, how many fathers, in a sort of reverse Oedipus complex, have eaten their son’s rodents? Did I vaguely remember a Greek play featuring a Minoan king consuming his child’s pet ferret? A kind of Edible complex. Perhaps I have stumbled upon the darkest of unmentionable secrets; a taboo so great that even Bret Easton Ellis wouldn’t dare to thematize it in novel form. If so, could this be my next novel, the Breakthrough one?
As a youth I had many minute mammalian pets. The ones who lived long enough were forever escaping, gnawing through the bottom of their cages, cutting through the chicken wire with steel-like incisors. Or so it seemed. Now, as I look back, I have to wonder. My father; was he also poaching from his son’s menagerie? I had always figured that Voop Vole (Microtus spp.) had made the great escape to the outside, to the field beyond our backyard. But now I wonder if he was, in fact, dispatched to the Elysian Fields of field mice, courtesy of my Dad.
And now I am the father, the Kali of Petdom, the devourer of small souls. The sins of the father revisiting the son, ad infinitum. So be it.
I won’t blame the tequila, although if this was a crime – and it certainly must be – it would be an accessory before, during and after the fact. I’d like to interject here that if you are going to partake of hamster, I think tequila is definitely the way to go. A dash of lime and a pinch of salt and you’re all set. Those who swear by Beaujolais know not of what they speak.
As I sat alone later last night, accompanied only by the remaining tequila, mulling over my act of hamstebalism, I had to wonder about the nature of my extraordinary meal. Just how weird is it to munch junior’s hamster? Am I the only one to have ever done this; am I the first? Or are there more of us? If more, how many more? Indeed, how many fathers, in a sort of reverse Oedipus complex, have eaten their son’s rodents? Did I vaguely remember a Greek play featuring a Minoan king consuming his child’s pet ferret? A kind of Edible complex. Perhaps I have stumbled upon the darkest of unmentionable secrets; a taboo so great that even Bret Easton Ellis wouldn’t dare to thematize it in novel form. If so, could this be my next novel, the Breakthrough one?
As a youth I had many minute mammalian pets. The ones who lived long enough were forever escaping, gnawing through the bottom of their cages, cutting through the chicken wire with steel-like incisors. Or so it seemed. Now, as I look back, I have to wonder. My father; was he also poaching from his son’s menagerie? I had always figured that Voop Vole (Microtus spp.) had made the great escape to the outside, to the field beyond our backyard. But now I wonder if he was, in fact, dispatched to the Elysian Fields of field mice, courtesy of my Dad.
And now I am the father, the Kali of Petdom, the devourer of small souls. The sins of the father revisiting the son, ad infinitum. So be it.
I had many minute mammalian pets. The ones who lived long enough were forever escaping, gnawing through the bottom of their cages, cutting through the chicken wire with steel-like incisors.
ReplyDeleteYes, this describes pretty much all the small mammalian pets I ever knew, too.
Just promise me you made sure, really sure, that Junior's little guy was dead, really dead, when you swallowed him. Those little "sewer under construction" noises may not be so innocent, nor so distant, as you'd like to believe.
[Aside: *so* glad to see you popping up here and there recently!]
Kali indeed, and what skeletons hang from your other limbs?!
ReplyDeleteA number of times growing up, we three children would go away with our mother, leaving our father at home. Upon return there would always be less pets......
John, nothing would make me happier than to make that promise to you. Alas, I cannot. Indeed, ever since the ‘episode’ I’ve been having the feeling that there is something running about in my stomach. I’ve even been considering trying to swallow a miniature hamster treadmill so that I can get some sleep at night. This ‘gnawing’ feeling in my gut is driving me nuts . . .
ReplyDeleteWell, Tammie, that makes two of us. And as a trained semi-scientist, I’d say that pushes my initial theory into fact, right?
Um, just out of curiosity . . . did your son have any problems with mysteriously disappearing pets?
No, my son did not have mysterious disappearing pets. I will share one pet story. Mama Mama please can I have a hamster? Me-Do you think it is a nice life to live in a cage? Jesper-YES. Well how about if you pretend your bedroom is the same as a cage. If you can live in there, only coming out to use the restroom for 3 days and you still think that is a wonderful way to live.... then you can have a hamster. Jesper-OK! With great enthusiasm he ran off and closed his door. I thought "oh no, we might be getting a caged pet". Twenty minutes later, out comes Jesper "mama, that would be a terrible way to live! Can I go out and play?".
ReplyDeleteI would chide you for this wanton act of hamstebalism, but gakking up the hairballs shall be its own punishment, I fear. (You might want to administer a tad more tequila, just medicinally really, to get you through the worst of it.)
ReplyDeleteY'know, perhaps hamsters should rename themselves "spamsters," as in the diabolically gelatinous luncheon meat. 100% insurance against hamstebalism (as long as you avoid the 2.5% of the population that enjoys SpamTM).
(Zzt...Just making sure: your son is the Son of Son of Incogneato? If so, his future blog could be The Wrath of the Son of Son of Incogneato or Son of Incogneato II: The Reckoning.)
Linked to your blog; thanks for visiting mine!
hehe... at a loss to how to respond to this post... but it did make me crack a broad smile!
ReplyDeleteBroad smiles are good. Like flying squirrels there are too few of them in this world.
ReplyDeleteThanks for dropping by.
My canary..it may have been a meal for my father? He told me it flew out the chimney! Tweety pie, what have we done!
ReplyDelete