It was a tough day yesterday. We suffered yet another death in our family.

Fric’s hamster Rosie, bit the biscuit. Or rather, her cage-mate (whom I shall now and forever affectionately refer to as Chomp) bit Rosie. Right through her spine, severing it. Along with taking a pound of hamster flesh, right out of Rosie’s hide.

Apparently, while we all slumbered peacefully, dreaming of sugar plums and candy canes, Chomp and Rosie were engaged in a hamster smack down. A fight to the death. A duel where only one over-fed furball could survive.

I woke up to find my daughter standing at my bedside, in tears, holding a bleeding and still breathing hamster in front of my nose, urging me to heal her and make things right. Short of grabbing a broom and beating the poor thing to death, there really wasn’t much I could do.

While examining the bleeding rodent I thought of a multitude of other things I would have preferred to do that morning. Have some coffee. Get a brazilian. Build a snowfort while completely nude. Yet here I was, pretending to know what the hell I was doing as the sad hamster lay in my hand and struggled to live.

Why couldn’t this happen tomorrow night, I thought to myself, when their damn father would be home to deal with it? Just my friggin luck I muttered under my breath. “What was that mom?” Fric inquired innocently.

“I was just saying how poor Rosie doesn’t seem to have any luck,” I covered.

After sending the kids to school and promising to play Nurse Jane to the little rat, I closed the box and put it on the table. The damn poor thing was taking her sweet time kicking the proverbial bucket. At least Frac’s mouse Dave, had the decency to died quickly, thereby causing me less stress. Not Rosie. She was a fighter. She stayed with me all afternoon. She haunted me. She robbed me of the joy of blogging life while I wrung my hands and worried she was in pain.

Plus, I was a little skeeved out by the fact there was a shredded and mutilated animal in pain and slowly dying while occupying space on my kitchen table. The place where I put food. Ew.

Just as I was working up the courage to grab the broom and help her on her merry little way, she finally gasped her last breath and made her exit. I swear I could hear the death rattle across the room. Damn hamster. She always was a drama queen.

But now what? The kids would be home soon, and I had promised to take care of the situation for them. I did not want to sit through yet another rodent funeral. It’s not like I could bury the little critter anyways, with the frozen ground. And I was not sticking her in my freezer to wait for the day the ground thaws.

I eyed my woodstove, blazing away in the corner of my family room. I could cremate her, but I was fairly sure the hubs would object to the use of the wood stove in that manner. I didn’t want to risk flushing her and having her plug up my pipes with her fat little carcass. Yet it seemed so disrespectful to just toss her in the trash like she was a just another dead rodent. She was my kid’s beloved pet after all.

The pressure mounted as I eyed the box holding Rosie’s remains. As I fretted over what to do with the rat, I envisioned her starting to rot and maggots crawling out of her body. Lovely.

Suddenly, movement flashed out of the corner of my eye.

There was a cat sitting on my back deck, sniffing my barbeque. It looked hungry.

I know what you’re thinking. You’d be right. I took the remains of Rosie, waved her under the hungry kitty’s cold nose and then tossed her into the bush. The kitty followed in hot pursuit.

How noble of Rosie, I thought. She would have wanted this, I told myself. She wouldn’t have wanted to go to waste. She was continuing the circle of life.

If Frac asks though, I’ll tell her I cremated her. My lovely and sensitive daughter may not feel as generous about her beloved pet’s remains as I did.

Rest in peace dear Rosie. Here’s hoping Chomp joins you soon and this hamster hell I’m stuck in will be over.