Cutting the Rope

Hammy used to get out at night.

He used to be able to climb up to a gap in the ceiling of his cage. It was amazing to see. He would, in a Joe Simpson mountaineering style, place his right paws on the craggy edges of his wheel and his left against the slippy ice-like smoothness of the tube that led to his attic bedroom. Then without ropes he would lever himself gracefully up to the summit. Once out he would then roam the pinnacles of books and magazines before scrambling down to the lower valleys of the downstairs rooms.

After exploring this dark world, he would then return to the soft down of his bed. First climbing up a plastic tube to regain his cage, and then by scrambling up another tube to reach his attic bedroom.

The kitchen was his favourite place. He would always explore it in a clockwise direction; and I would occasionally leave little piles of food in corners to make his explorations worthwhile. He was our own personal midnight Dyson.

Over time he stopped getting out at night.

A few weeks ago he seemed unable to reach his attic bedroom so I made him a warm soft down bed at the bottom of his cage.

Two mornings ago I was alarmed to find him dragging one of his legs. He had somehow got the down twisted like a rope around his left hind leg. I cut him free it; then I had to cut away a bracelet of down that was still tightly wrapped around his leg like a tourniquet.

That evening I checked him out. His foot was swollen but looked as if it would be all right. I placed him in the kitchen so he could enjoy a wander hoping also that the cool kitchen tiles would help his swollen foot.

To my alarm Hammy began to walk in circles like a clockwork mouse.

I fear that our Hammy might be getting close to touching the void.