I have always been adamantly opposed to the idea of children having rodents for pets. It’s not that I’m scared of them (rodents, that is): on the contrary, I grew up on a farm, and it wasn’t that uncommon to stick my hand into a fifty pound bag of feed at stupid o’clock in the morning only to have an entire mouse convention use my arms, shoulders and hair to evacuate the building. (There is no amount of espresso that can equal that for a wake up call). And it’s not that I think they’re creepy (rodents, that is): every time I watch Willard I root for the rats. No, the reason I am so dead set against having rodent for pets is the smell. I can’t abide the smell of a manky hamster cage.
And yeah, I know: mice and gerbils and hamsters and rats and guinea pigs and sugar gliders and freaking hedgehogs are all “very fastidious,” and given the chance will keep their living quarters so spotless you’ll think they had some kind of vermin OCD. They’ll arrange their exercise tubes into such soul-affirming, feng shui-like sculptures that Martha Stewart would flat out weep with envy. They’ll spend the rest of their short, brutish little lives with a bleach pen in their pockets. If, that is, they are only given the chance.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it? They aren’t given the chance. They aren’t given the chance because they are children’s pets, and children are the nastiest, foulest creatures that ever drew breath. “Oh, but given the chance children will keep their living quarters spotless,” said nobody, ever. So yeah, given that I really hate the smell of a dirty hamster cage, and that the only way I could be sure of having a clean hamster cage in my house would be to 1) clean it myself, or 2) never actually put a hamster in it, I have always quite firmly vetoed the idea of ever bringing home a pet rodent.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I walked into my son Clyde’s room the other day and smelled the unmistakeable odor of wet hamster. And imagine how even more surprised I was to find that there was no hamster in the room. None. I checked. Which meant that we were either being haunted by the vengeful spirit of an incontinent hamster, or that Clyde’s (un)natural boy funk is now officially the worst thing I have ever smelled.
I must admit that I was seriously hoping for option number one; in fact, I don’t think I have ever prayed so hard from a visit from the “other side” in my life. Alas, it was not to be. The room was not being haunted by the ghosts of hamster past, present or future. It was, indeed, all Clyde’s funk.
The worst part is that I can’t even tell what it is, exactly, that has ratcheted the smell up to this new level of rankness. Is it the sweaty socks or the sweaty boy? Or perhaps the sweaty socks on the sweaty boy? Or maybe it is something else entirely. For all I know it’s not his fault at all: maybe the cat is peeing on an electrical outlet.
I suppose I could make more of an effort to find out. After all, there are perfumers out there whose noses are sensitive enough to detect all of the different notes in a perfume. Their noses can parse out the hints of vanilla from the touch of frangipani, and even figure out whether it needs more or less primrose. I sincerely doubt, however, that they have ever been called upon to separate all of the different odors in a twelve-year-old boy’s bedroom.
Or if they have, I’m pretty sure they haven’t done it more than once.