Dave the Hamster: The Love of a Hamster
Boston, 1988. The office above the Chinese laundry was quiet except for the low hum of the radiator and the occasional chitter of a very lovesick hamster.
Dave sat on the edge of Brogan’s desk, staring at the windowsill with the kind of hopeless, dopey expression that only a four-ounce rodent could pull off.
Her name was Hazel.
She was a sleek, cinnamon-colored female hamster who had shown up two weeks earlier in a small pet-store cage delivered “by mistake” to the office. Brogan had shrugged and let her stay in a spare drawer. Hazel was graceful, curious, and had the softest whiskers Dave had ever seen. She liked sunflower seeds with the shells cracked just right. She could run her wheel without making it squeak. She looked at Dave like he wasn’t just a scruffy street survivor with one floppy ear.
Dave was in love.
And love, as every hamster knows, makes you do stupid, dangerous, ridiculous things.
It started innocently enough.
Dave began leaving her the biggest, plumpest sunflower seeds from his own stash. Then he started clearing a path through the clutter on the desk so she could visit without climbing over pencil shavings. He even (and this was the most humiliating part) practiced his chittering so it sounded smoother, less like a rusty chainsaw and more like… well, something a lady might like.
Marmalade watched the whole thing from the windowsill with pure feline contempt.
One night, Hazel mentioned — in that soft little squeak of hers — that she missed the feeling of fresh night air and the smell of the city after rain. She’d been born in the pet store. She’d never really been outside.
Dave’s heart did something complicated in his tiny chest.
That same night, while Brogan was out tailing a cheating husband and Marmalade was on one of his spicy-chicken dumpster runs, Dave made his move.
He chewed through the latch on Hazel’s drawer (a skill he’d perfected escaping Vinnie’s harness years ago). Then he climbed up Brogan’s coat hanging on the hook, dragged it down like a parachute, and used it as a ramp so Hazel could get to the windowsill.
The window was open just a crack for the summer breeze.
Dave went first — squeezing through the gap like he’d done a thousand times in vents. Hazel followed, a little nervous but trusting.
They made it to the fire escape.
The city stretched out below them: neon from the Combat Zone, the distant glow of Fenway, the smell of rain on hot pavement and fried dumplings from the laundry downstairs. Hazel’s eyes went wide.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
Dave puffed out his tiny chest. “I’ll show you the best parts.”
What followed was the most reckless night of Dave’s life.
He led her across the narrow ledge to the next building, then down a drainpipe (he went first so he could catch her if she slipped). They crossed the alley on a clothesline like it was a tightrope. Dave kept one paw on her the whole time.
They visited the spicy-chicken dumpster behind the Chinese place (Marmalade’s territory — Dave glared at the big orange cat until he reluctantly moved aside with a flick of the tail). Hazel tried a tiny piece of chicken and declared it the best thing she’d ever tasted.
They ran along the rooftops, dodging pigeons who thought they were dinner. Dave showed her the view of the Zakim Bridge lights reflecting on the water. He showed her the spot behind the Velvet Lounge where the girls sometimes left crumbs of pastry. He even took her past the old pig farm in Billerica (from a safe distance) and told her the story of how he escaped Vinnie’s crew.
Everywhere they went, Dave was terrified something would eat her. Every shadow looked like a cat, every noise like a goon’s boot. But Hazel just stayed close, whiskers brushing his, and said things like “You’re very brave, Dave.”
Love makes a hamster do stupid things.
At 4 a.m., they were perched on the rim of the big dumpster behind the office when disaster struck.
A raccoon — big, mean, and hungry — lumbered around the corner. It saw two hamsters and decided tonight’s snack had just doubled.
Dave didn’t think. He didn’t calculate odds. He just shoved Hazel behind him, puffed out his chest as far as it would go, and chattered the loudest, angriest, most ferocious battle cry a hamster had ever produced.
The raccoon paused, confused.
Then Marmalade dropped from the fire escape like an orange thunderbolt.
The big cat landed between Dave and the raccoon, arched his back, hissed like a broken steam pipe, and swatted the raccoon across the nose hard enough to send it yelping back into the shadows.
Marmalade turned, gave Dave a long, superior look, and flicked his tail once — the cat equivalent of “You owe me, rodent.”
Dave nodded gratefully. Hazel peeked out from behind him, eyes shining.
They made it back to the office just before dawn. Dave helped Hazel into her drawer, then collapsed on Brogan’s blotter, exhausted and still buzzing.
Brogan walked in an hour later, took one look at the two hamsters curled up together (Hazel’s head resting on Dave’s shoulder), and raised an eyebrow.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “Even the hamster found someone who puts up with him.”
Dave opened one eye, gave Brogan the world’s smuggest hamster shrug, and went back to sleep.
Because love makes a hamster do stupid, dangerous, ridiculous things.
It makes him sneak out windows. It makes him face down raccoons. It makes him trust a cat who once tried to eat him.
And sometimes — just sometimes — it makes the toughest little bastard in Boston realize that the best thing in the world isn’t sunflower seeds or taking down the Mob.
It’s having someone look at you like you’re the bravest four ounces they’ve ever met.
The End.
