The Cycle
I’m standing in my kitchen waiting for the minutes to tick by faster. The fluorescent green numbers on the stove have yet to reach noon, lingering a little too long on 11:53. I already filled the droppers with their respective medicines; the steroids that smell like a child’s cough syrup and the antibiotic a vanilla perfume I’ve always wanted. The plunger of the antibiotic dropper didn’t give me any problems as I tried to push out the excess medicine, but I know that only means it’ll start resisting my thumb when it’s actually important. My hamster, Laszlo, was diagnosed with cancer.
Cancer in animals was always an odd concept to me. The word itself, cancer, evokes such powerful feelings. Remorse. Fear. A killer of humans…our pets aren’t even safe from it. When a dog is diagnosed with cancer, they are offered treatment and people reassure the parent of the afflicted with coos of how much longer the dog can still live. Humans go through the trials and tribulations of chemotherapy, some lucky enough to have the cancer go into remission. What does one do when a hamster faces this final trial? The meds aren’t meant to save him — he will live comfortably as long as it can allow him to, until it doesn’t work anymore.
11:55, close enough. I grab my paper towel holding the droppers, chuckling at the third one. It’s full of sweet corn and green bean baby food. The instructions for both medications were deathly serious, very dramatic if you ask me, but the antibiotic clearly states that Laszlo should take it with food. However, when it comes to a morning dose, you can’t necessarily bring a hamster to their food bowl after ripping them out of sleep and expect them to eat. So, now he has three doses. I give him the baby food first to adhere to the directions, but it also helps him get the medicine down easier.
Crouching by his 75 gallon tank, I sigh as I realize he’s burrowed himself under his sandbox. I hate when he does that; it worries me because of how heavy the box can be. On the bright side, it makes my job easier because as I lift it out of his tank, I find him right underneath without having to dig through the bedding. He twitches and turns his head towards me, his eyes struggling to open through the heavy sleep. As he realizes who I am, he wakes up easily and rolls onto his feet, sniffing the air curious as to why I’m here even though we’ve done this for almost a week now. His fur is tattered and thin, riddled with bald patches. At the center of each one is a black flaking scab eroding a tumor. I grab him — like a mischievous claw machine — and turn him so his back is arched in my palm. I hate the way the scabs feel against my skin. They’re rough and seem so sensitive — I worry one wrong move will hurt him.
Using my pointer finger, I hold his hands down against his body, and I take the droppers one by one into my other hand. He’s well-behaved despite how invasive I’m being. He’s like a stubborn child. He turns his head away from the tip of the dropper, but once he has no more space to turn to, he opens his mouth. The first two droppers easily go in and I wait for him to swallow and lick his lips. The third poses problems and struggles against my push; my prediction was correct. His teeth still look good, a disgusting yellow and not too long. Definitely sharp. I’m thankful he’s never bitten me.
Once I’m finished, I place him on my chest momentarily as I return the droppers to the paper towel. My cat sits in front of it, sniffing at everything and watching Laszlo with expanded pupils. She tries to look menacing, though her black fluffy fur and baby face make it impossible. Also the fact that she actually fears Laszlo and, while she finds him interesting at the same time, insists on staying a few feet away from him. It makes things easier on me not to worry about her. As I prepare to return him to his hole under the sandbox, I realize he has cuddled himself into me. I can’t possibly turn down an opportunity to sit with him, so we go to the couch where I slump in the corner and lean my head back. Maybe he can hear my heart. How fast it's going, how heavy. How it pounds against my chest trying to break the bone with its fears. The last time a hamster laid on my chest was…
I shake my head. Get rid of that memory for now. Laszlo is still alive and I should be focusing on that, not the latter end of things. Not the question mark the vet left hanging over me as we left his office. I pull out my phone and take a selfie with him, posting it on my Instagram story. I don’t know if people actually look at them, they probably scroll through so fast they don’t even see the hamster and they just think it's a picture of me fresh out of bed. It’s been cathartic for me though. I always worry that I don’t have enough pictures with Laszlo, not enough memories to look back on.
While I’m scrolling, I hear the wind howl and I nearly drop my phone on Laszlo as the front door of my apartment bursts open. It has done that from time to time, but I had thought my mom’s boyfriend fixed it. Sure enough, I see my other cat, Monty, make a beeline for the porch. He seizes every opportunity to explore the outside world and make me crawl in the mud trying to retrieve him from underneath the porches downstairs. I place Laszlo on the couch and intercept him, flattening him to the floor with a palm on his back. Once he’s in my arms, I grab the door to swing it shut. I think I avoided the stress of chasing an animal down the stairs, but I’m instantly proved wrong when I watch as Laszlo unexpectedly runs out the door and scampers down the porch towards the stairs. I toss Monty onto the couch and leave, slamming the door behind me.
Laszlo is unexpectedly fast. By the time I’m out, he’s already at the bottom of the stairs. I want to figure out how he was able to manage that, considering he’d have to thump down the stairs one by one, but now isn’t the time. As I skip down, I notice he’s waiting for me. The moment I near him at the second to last step, he hurries down the sidewalk to the left, towards the grassy patch outlining the condo. I follow, slowing down in my confusion. He’s moving quickly, but I notice he’s been looking back at me — like he’s leading me somewhere. He stops just before the grass and looks at me.
Perhaps I’ve lost my mind, but something about his mannerisms makes me listen. He seems almost desperate for me to go where he wants me to. I gesture my hand forward, ushering him to go on. He enters the grass. His body is large enough to where I can still easily see him. That’s the gift of choosing one of the larger Syrian hamsters, I suppose. As I carefully step after him, I keep my eyes out for any of the stray cats in the area. The one I named Captain is a sweetheart and I don’t have to worry about him — it’s Mook I have to fear. He’s had a habit of bringing me dead birds and I’ve watched as he’s hunted squirrels in vain. A cancer ridden, somewhat elderly hamster is probably an easy prize.
Laszlo waits for me before we cross the street. I notice he is heading towards a cluster of trees by a house. We have to be cautious there as well, as I’ve seen another stray cat around the house who is always hunting out here. Living a cushy life inside his tank with friendly cats around, I realize Laszlo probably never realized how dangerous they are — how tasty they’d find him.
We enter the trees and I find there’s a path snaking through. He’s intensely following the path, not looking back at me anymore.
“For someone who just got diagnosed with cancer, you sure are energetic,” I call to him with a small laugh. The trees around us grow thicker as we move until I can’t see anything outside. There should be another apartment complex to our right, but with how far we’ve walked, I have no idea where we’ll emerge. There is a clearing nearing up ahead. I look up into the trees and grin as I notice the mourning doves watching us move. I love their song, how haunting it is. It’s my favorite sound in the morning.
We approach the clearing and Laszlo finally looks back at me, I guess checking to make sure I’ve kept up. I almost want to lecture him — my legs are way longer than his, I should be faster than him if I wanted to be, so how dare he doubt me. When we both exit, I’m left stumped. I turn around to make sure I’m not mistaken, but the trees are gone and have been replaced by a familiar wooden fence. Somehow we ended up in my grandparents’ backyard. It’s a grand yard, the kind you’d see in a catalogue to make you wish you could afford the luxury. They have a deck with a glass outdoor table surrounded by beautiful bushels and hanging pots of flowers. Outlining the shape of the yard is the garden — in the spring it comes to life with hydrangeas and hyacinths. There are two wooden sheds on either side of the yard, one probably as old as the house with dusty yellow paint chipping off and some rotting wood here and there, the other only a couple of years old with fresh black paint and a sleek modern design.
Laszlo starts cutting across the yard, heading towards the back corner. My steps are hesitant as I follow. He waits in the bushes for me before advancing.
“Wait, I don’t think you want to go back there,” I try to warn. He continues anyway. I barely want to go back there myself, but I realize I must get Laszlo back so I need to be brave. I step around the bushes.
The dirt here is piled in a mound and lumpy, and a couple of trees stand in its midst. I sigh as I look around at it. This is our personal pet cemetery. Every animal I and my mother have had in our lives are here. The numerous ferrets from my childhood, her old dog, cats I grew up with for a time. The one that I can’t stop thinking about is here, too. I look to my left, near the base of one of the trees, and I see his gravestone is turned over unnaturally, as though someone flipped it off the site. There’s also a giant gaping hole where he should be. Laszlo stands at the edge.
“Get away from—”
Before I could finish, he jumps in. I run over and realize the hole isn’t deep, but it does curve into the earth. Laszlo glances up at me, his nose twitching energetically, before he continues into the mysterious tunnel. All I can do in the moment is repeatedly clench and release my fists as I try to control my breathing. I don’t want to be here right now — I don’t know why Laszlo would bring me here. But, despite this, I know the hole is large enough for me too, so I have to continue onwards. I crawl in, every instinct in my body telling me to turn around. The dirt is cold under my hands and the granules that nestle in between my fingers send a chill down my spine. I can barely even see Laszlo anymore with how dark it is. Hopefully this tunnel doesn’t have any turns or anything.
Suddenly, the ground underneath me collapses. I find myself sliding forward and falling into darkness. My screams echo and I try to reach for something to grab, but it seems there’s nothing around me. Slowly, I realize more light is coming into the area, until I find that I am truly falling down a wide hole. The walls are packed with dirt and when I look down, I see Laszlo falling as well. He doesn’t seem worried at all, his little hands and legs spread out as if he’s a professional skydiver. I take heavy breaths as I encourage myself to do the same, rolling my body forward uneasily and spreading my limbs.
The dirt walls transition as we fall, turning to stone. I look around as much as I can, noticing statues as we fall. Stone animals stand on pedestals reaching out from the walls. I see cats, dogs, ferrets…I begin to recognize them. When I look down, I see the bottom. It is covered in blankets and pillows, and I hope there are enough to brace our landing. As we fall into it, I realize it was a mountain of blankets, so our bodies sink safely. I instantly move, praying I didn’t squish Laszlo. He happens to have fallen in some divot, protected from my giant body.
“Where are we?” I ask him in a whisper. He looks at me with his glossy black eyes before descending down the mound of bedding. I follow, the blankets slippery. I begin to recognize some of the blankets and pillows. Some I own currently, but others are older. I can spot my comforter from when I was in middle school — lilac with violet vines, the exact same bedding Bella has in the “Twilight” movies. Once I slide to the bottom, I notice a door. He stands on his hind legs and watches me.
“Oh, I suppose you want me to open this for you even though you’ve put me through all of this?”
He nods his head and I’m taken aback.
“You actually understand me?”
He stamps his foot, looking between me and the door impatiently. I lift my hands in surrender before opening it. As it creaks open dramatically, I’m rendered breathless by what we find. All of my pets…the ferrets, cats, dogs, lizards — all of them are here and…dancing? I can’t see any walls — rather, it's an open space full of stars and blue nebulae. The ground sparkles gold and every step leaves behind a glowing footprint. The music is upbeat, almost like that of a carnival, but I’m unsure of where it’s coming from. The animals acknowledge us, stopping their dance and looking at me expectantly. I can feel the tears rush forth as I drop to my knees. They run over instinctively, all greeting me. For most of them, it has been years. I give them each hugs and kisses, making sure to greet every single one. My ancient cat Petrie, who lived to be roughly a thousand years old, is here but she looks young and lively, all of her weight has returned to her. At the end of the reunions, as the ferrets flood back in their pack formation where they were dancing and the cats slink away, they leave one more to say hello.
“Is that my Bruno?” I whisper. Bruno, the only hamster here aside from Laszlo, with beautiful chocolate brown fur and big doe eyes like a disney cartoon, stands on his hindlegs and leans his front paws on my knee. I scoop him into my hands and bring him up to my face, resting my cheek on his back. My tears run into his fur and I lift my face, wiping my wet cheek on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make you wet…I…I can’t believe I can hold you right now.”
I put him down and look at Laszlo. Despite being around the same age, Laszlo looks twice Bruno’s size and his fur is patchier. Actually, it’s odd how vibrant Bruno looks. When he died…his fur had dulled much like Laszlo’s to a grayish tone only accented by brown. Except he never got as fluffy; he had a skirt of fur as a baby, but over time it slicked out into a smooth coat. All of the animals looked healthier, more colorful. I suppose that’s what happens when you go and die.
“Thank you,” I sniffle. I bring Laszlo up to my face and kiss his head. “Thank you for this.”
Bruno grabs my pant leg and tugs on it. He points to the animals dancing before gesturing to us and doing a little dance of his own where he kicks his feet out. I place Laszlo on the ground and they both lead the way, skittering alongside one another until we are a part of the circle of animals. The cats are balanced on their hind legs and waving their arms side to side, the ferrets had formed some sort of can-can line, and the dogs are hopping foot to foot. Even the lizards are dancing, whipping their tails around in circles. Bruno and Laszlo start dancing, swinging their arms at their sides and lifting their feet.
I get to my feet and join them, doing the same dance, and I can’t help but laugh at how silly we all must look. But we dance anyway. The songs keep coming, each similar with how cheerful they are but different in sound. We dance for what feels like hours. I bounce around the area, taking turns with each of the animal groups. Eventually I grow tired, my elbows sore from waving my arms so long and my legs feeling weak. I kneel to the ground and pick up Laszlo.
“I think it’s time I get him home. He hasn’t slept yet today,” I explain to Bruno. But before I could get up, he places a hand on the strap of my sandal and shakes his head. I look between him and Laszlo. Laszlo keeps slowly looking between me and Bruno, as Bruno waves his arms, beckoning him. “Oh…no, no I’m sorry. Bruno, you know all I wanted when was to give you the world. But you can’t have him. Not yet.”
I clasp Laszlo in both of my hands, pulling him away, but I notice quickly that he’s trying to climb down. He seems frantic to leave. I don’t understand.
“Laszlo, you still have time. Don’t you want to keep living? You…you have a choice. Bruno didn’t and it breaks my heart everyday, but you still have time. Please…please…”
As I speak, I remember the night Bruno died. The clear box the nurse had placed him in, pumping oxygen as he waited for me to sign his death sentence. His legs were so weak he could barely walk, his energy so low all he wanted was to sleep on my chest. Laszlo was still okay…right?
He looks back at me, staring into my eyes. I can see the exhaustion in his face and I look at the scabs covering his body. He seems to be made more of scabs than healthy skin anymore. Every night, when I let him roam on the couch, I think about how different he acts compared to when he lived in the dorm room with me. He doesn’t run around anymore, but rather insists on sleeping in my shirt. In fact, I even notice scabs on him that I hadn’t accounted for before — the inevitable spread I was warned of.
“Oh Laszlo…I haven’t listened at all.”
I slowly lower him to the floor where he joins Bruno’s side. They shake their little hands — a gesture far kinder now in death than it would’ve been in life. I know if they had met before, they’d probably try to kill each other. It’s a good reassurance though to see them be so friendly. I know Laszlo won’t be alone.
I pet both of them with the tip of my finger before standing. My tears fall to the floor. They approach each leg and hug my ankles, and I linger. All of the animals are watching curiously and I don’t want to leave any of them again. But I know I don’t belong here.
When I turn around, the door is gone but a mirror stands right in front of me. I see myself, but it isn’t the current me. It’s the one from roughly two years ago, from the night Bruno was rushed to the emergency vet to die. She’s wearing the green hoodie I threw out the same month, her eyes are swollen and she looks tired. Her hand reaches out and extends beyond the mirror’s edge, grabbing my shoulder.
“You did right by him.”
I try to figure out who she means, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change the meaning if I apply it to Bruno or Laszlo, because I know that I tried my best in caring for them. That’s why, despite both getting sick, they still lived to be elderly. They never had to call a tiny wire cage their home. They were never tortured by some toddler because a parent stupidly thought they were a “beginner animal.” They never had their boundaries pushed. I nod and she hugs me.
“Get in the bed and you’ll return home.”
I don’t know what she’s talking about until she lets go and I find a bed has appeared to my left. It’s not just any bed, but mine — I recognize the black floral comforter and pink rabbit plush. I crawl in, my shoulders still heaving from the tears. How am I supposed to fall asleep after this? But then I remember that night after Bruno’s death. Bringing him to my fiance’s house in a little cardboard box at one in the morning. Laying in bed and crying myself to sleep as I stared at it. I look at Laszlo and Bruno one last time, both of them waving at me. My eyes shut easier than anticipated. After a dreamless sleep, I wake up back in my own room with my black cat crouching on my chest, her eyes nearly pitch black. She bats at my face, the tips of her soft toes wiping a loose tear off my cheek. I walk to the kitchen, across the way in the living room staring into Laszlo’s tank. He’s still there, alive, resting under his hut visibly. I take a deep breath and call the vet, and I request to change the focus of his follow-up appointment next week.
“I’m going to need end-of-life services,” I say calmly. “I need to let him go.”
Did you know hamsters only live for approximately two years — three if they’re really lucky? Along the way, as you socialize with them, you train them to be more affectionate. The way you treat them is a backbone for how they will respond to you. The more you love them, the more they will bond to you. But what people don’t tell you is how close that bond becomes, how tight those ropes of companionship hold you together. How after two years, they’ll snap unexpectedly. Bruno lived to be roughly one year and nine months old. Laszlo is currently a year and seven months old. I brought him home a month after Bruno’s passing, once I realized the despair of no longer having the company every night. Laszlo will be my last hamster. I know what will come of Laszlo’s fate, unlike what happened with Bruno. What’s worse: being suddenly told your friend has to die, or knowing the exact day and time you’ll have to surrender him? Every night is a bell tolling, reminding me of the vicious cycle. At least this time I’ll be ready for it, and somewhere in the stars, deep in the galaxy…my hamsters will be dancing.
Cover Photo by Alexey Demidov. Edited by Yasmin Pesherov.