Seven little ones

Yesterday I discovered that my golden hamster had given birth to seven healthy babies. At last I understood why she had stayed motionless in the corner. Now there are seven more mouths to feed. They eat astonishingly much—one seems to eat as much as two of my fancy rats—so I ordered more food that day. Without it, they would keep chewing at the cage.

I cannot stop picturing them. Unlike the baby fancy rats I have seen, these little ones appear to have neat rows of teeth already. They are sturdy, small, and tailless, with bright eyes. Sometimes they seem almost human to me, as if an old soul is peering through the wire. When I meet those black-bean eyes, I imagine them asking what the giant outside will bring them today.

The seven tiny terrors have already turned the quiet mound of wood shavings into a playground. Their mother looks tired. At feeding time they swarm her like little bandits. I sympathize with her: keeping those hungry mouths supplied is also hard on my wallet.

Yet at night, the soft rustle from the cage makes me feel strangely settled. I lean in to watch them test the wire with their teeth, huddle into a warm pile, or sigh when they reach the best spot beside their mother. The four fancy rats in the neighboring cage have been unusually quiet, as if observing their new competitors in an eating contest. Seeing the two species side by side makes me marvel at their differences.

Seven lives have entered my routine without warning. There will be food to add, bedding to change, and messes to clear up. Even if they keep gnawing my cage and emptying the food bag, I will be their willing provider. I cannot resist these lively, tailless little creatures.