Well, the short answer to that question is “yes.” But they don’t always recover. How do I know, you ask? Pull up a chair and let me tell you a little story…
The year was 1990. I was a lowly two-striper in the Air Force. Airman First-Class if you want to get technical. Now contrary to all the hype and well-publicized lies, low-ranking enlisted folks don’t make diddly squat in the monetary department. I had just arrived at my first base, fresh from tech school. After a few months of complete boredom I decided I needed a life…and a car. In order to make that happen, I needed some money (since grand theft auto is highly frowned upon in society).
So one day I was walking through the mall and I stopped to look at some kittens or alligators or some sort of animal in the mall’s pet store window. Taped to the glass I saw a sign that said “Help Wanted.”
“How hard can it be to sell pets,” I thought. I mean, it sounded like a cake walk, right? I’d come in a couple nights a week and play with the puppies and scoop dead fish from the aquariums. Easy. Filled with anticipation, I inquired within. Five minutes later I walked out of the store as a fully-qualified pet salesman! My mom would’ve been so proud.
I had to sit through the required safety videos that have a knack for insulting anyone with an IQ of more than 17. And I had to read the handbook on the proper handling of snakes. But for all intents and purposes, I was a Pet Dealer Extraordinaire.
I arrived the next evening for my first day of work, excited to make my first commission on a miniature poodle or a Siamese cat or maybe even something cool like a parrot. My dreams were dashed the moment I crossed the threshold.
“Mike!” my manager called from behind the register. I remember him being a generally unhappy sort of guy. I could imagine him coming in after hours and poking animals through the bars of their cages with a sharpened pencil.
“Welcome aboard,” he said, in a nasally monotone voice. ”We’re gonna put you in the rodent section today.”
Rodents? Are you kidding me? Obviously my personal skills and sales abilities were going to waste. I wanted to run with the big boys and girls. Surely there was a Saint Bernard or an iguana or an albino pygmie rhinocerous that needed to be sold. My feelings of dejection were slightly soothed by the fact that I had only been working in the industry for about seven minutes. So I proceeded to the rodent section and was quickly trained on the proper rodent sales ettiquette. One very important rule of rodent sale…always poke holes in the containers. And don’t bite them. They really don’t like that.
After about fifteen minutes on the job I was approached by an eager seven year old boy and his mother. He was pointing at an aquarium that had exceeded it’s maximum occupancy of hamsters. These things were stacked three or four high. It was like a huge hamster orgy of infinite proportions.
“Do hamsters make good pets,” the concerned mother asked. She had this look of concern on her face that told me she was totally not into the idea of bringing a furry rodent into her house. I immediately imagined her up on a chair in the kitchen screaming her bloody head off as some harmless puffball scurried over the linoleum.
“Of course they do,” I said soothingly as I winked at the kid at her side. I was working both angles. It’s a natural sales tactic…they don’t teach this stuff so pay attention. You either got it or you don’t.
“But are they gentle,” she asked, clutching her purse nervously. I was wondering if she might be confusing hamsters with howler monkeys. ”Oh yeah,” I said, “I had a hamster growing up.” Of course, I didn’t inform her that I regularly played hamster toss with my sister (until the cat joined in…). But that’s another story. Maybe she’ll tell it.
“Which one do you like,” I asked as I turned to the excited little boy. His eyes lit up and at that moment I KNEW I had a sale. He browsed the hamster orgy tank and finally pointed to a fluffy tan one that, luckily, was not in the midst of hamster relations or on the bottom of the pile.
“Good choice,” I said as I pulled the lid off the tank and reached in. I brought out the furry little guy and bent down with him in the palm of my hand. ”See, Mom,” I exclaimed, “look how calm he is. These little guys are as tame as a turtle!”
Now, I have a theory or two about hamsters. One: They understand the English language very well. Two: Those little bastards will go to any extent to pull a prank. I no sooner got the word “turtle” out of my mouth when the furry little creep opened up his deadly little mouth and latched on to that flappy skin web between my thumb and first finger.
And when I say “latched” I’m talking jaws of life latched. I’m calculating the jaw pressure at about 330 lbs/sq. in.
I jumped up from my bent position yelling “JESUS CHRISSST!” The hamster held on, dangling from my now wounded hand.
“HOLY SHIT, GET IT OFF,” I screamed in a girl-like voice that still horrifies me to this day. I flapped my hand back and forth frantically, but the vampirical monster hung on. At this point, mom was white with shock. The little boy’s eyes were as big as saucers. And here I am with this tan demon from hell latched on to my hand. Nothing like makin’ memories, huh?
I jumped up and down, still flapping my wounded hand which was now trickling blood. It was like something out of a horror movie. Spots of blood splattered the orgy tank as I continued my devil-hamster dance.
Still cursing in some long lost language embedded in my DNA, I raised the hamster hand over my head and whipped it toward the floor. At which point, the relentless, demonically-possessed furry little troll let go.
Now, I’m not a major league pitcher or much of an athlete at all, but I’d be willing to guess that the hamster was travelling at about 87 mph when it collided with the floor. It took one bounce, landed on my shoe, and rolled off into a tiny pile of defeated hamster carcass.
And that was all she wrote. I had vanquished my evil little foe.
“THAT’S HOW I ROLL, FOOL,” I thought in my head. For some odd, sick reason I was proud that I had won this legendary battle. I was victorious against the evil vermin.
Then the kid burst into tears.
His mother scooped him under her arm and they quickly exited the store. I looked up to see my boss, still behind the register, mouth agape in a huge O. I stood there, panting, dress shirt half untucked, hair a mess. For a moment, the silence was palpable. I looked my boss straight in the eye and asked the one question that I know everyone reading this is thinking:
“So do I throw this dead hamster in the trash or is there a hamster bucket in the back?”
