The Pet Rescuer.

When I was a little girl I had a penchant for rescuing animals that appeared to need my help. Be it feathered or furred when I was on the scene any creature was in safe hands. Much to my mothers disgust I would frequently hide injured baby birds in the airing cupboard and flea ridden, half squashed hedgehogs in boxes in the shed. When I happened upon the cruellest pet shop in the United Kingdom I was over the moon at the all the animal rescuing opportunities that lay before me. Now this was in a time when it was fine to pack as many rabbits as physically possible in to one cage. No one really cared about animal welfare back then. Placing five small kittens in a shop window directly in the sun with nothing but a half full, dirty bowl of water to quench their thirst whilst they baked was a perfectly acceptable practise. The pet shop was run by a middle aged, balding man who wore holey, patterned jumpers whatever the weather. He would stand behind the counter on which sat huge, smelly dried out pigs ears and other assorted dog chews. The shop was crammed to the rafters with domestic animals. Cages of budgies and finches where stacked one on top of the other. Tanks smeared with green algae brimmed with goldfish. Terrapins sat atop tiny plastic rocks and extended their necks to bite anyone who dared to stroke their softening shells with a curious finger. The animals I homed in on and who looked like they needed my help the most where the hamsters. I would spend a long time staring through the glass and watching them poke their twitchy noses out of their plastic houses and into the air to assess if it was safe to come out for a nibble. The cages weren't particularly clean. In all honesty they could have done with a good scrub but whatever state they were in it was better than what I could offer them. Did this deter me? No it jolly didn't! I was going to smuggle those hamsters into my bedroom if it was the last thing I was ever going to do. Being only ten years old I didn't think past the initial part of the rescue plan. I didn't have the funds to purchase a cage. I certainly didn't have any permission whatsoever from my mother to introduce a pet into the family. This was a highly covert, ill thought out operation. I could envisage no problem occurring. I just needed to remove the hamsters from the nasty, baldy shop keepers care and make the world a better place.
One day after school I decided to start the undercover mission. I strode boldly up to the pigs ears and asked the man how one could obtain a hamster. He eyed me suspiciously. "You want a hamster, do you?", he sneered. His teeth were stained yellow and brown much like the jumper he was sporting that day. He informed me that if I wanted to buy one of his hamsters I would need a letter from either of my parents. I was surprised at this stringent rule. I was sure it was just going to be a case of handing over the three pounds and being on my way. I only had my mother at home since my father had run off the year before with his secretary (or the "Hod-Carrier" as my mother used to call her) so my chances of getting a legitimate note were already halved. I assured the man there would be no problem and I would return the next day with the paperwork. After school the following day I was true to my word and handed him the note he had requested. The letter was written in pencil and on Rainbow Brite note paper. I would imagine it contained a fair few spelling mistakes and the signature at the bottom which read "Mrs Slark" was capitalised throughout. Rubbing his fat stomach with one hand and holding the note in the other, he read the letter. He looked at me with his squinty, piggy eyes and shrugged his shoulders. "Ok. Whatever", he said. "Which one do you want?" Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather! He had been fooled! I felt elated and nervous all at once. I walked with a nonchalant air over to the tiny cages of hamsters. I chose a little orange hamster that had the most faeces piled up in his sparsely strewed sawdust. Aftercare wasn't given. Neither were enquires made into whether or not I had adequate housing for the small creature. The most customer service I received was a quick brushing off of the droppings that had matted on to the tufts of fur on the hamsters back legs, and a small cardboard box with handles and holes in which to transport the rodent to its fate. "Three quid.", said the piggy eyed jumper. I thrust the coins into his dirty hands and walked as quick as I could out of the shop. 
My heart was beating like a drum on that short walk home. Once I was in my bedroom I sat down on the floor and placed the box in front of me. There was scratching coming from inside. It was then that the enormity of what I had achieved hit me and I started to worry. I needed to quickly think of a place to keep the hamster. I crept down to the kitchen and ferreted through the cupboard. I grabbed one of the biggest mixing bowls I could find, an apple and some kitchen paper. I went upstairs and shredded the paper into the bottom of the bowl and placed the apple on top. I then tipped the hamster in. I wouldn't say he/she was pleased in the new home. There was nowhere for the poor thing to hide so it just sat there looking at me as if to say, "OK. What now?". I stared back and with troubled eyes which replied, "I don't know". I am sorry to report that is was then that I got a bit bored. Art attack was about to come on the telly and I could smell the beginnings of dinner wafting up the stairs. I pushed the bowl under my bed and went downstairs. 
By bedtime I had completely forgotten about what I had scurrying about amongst the mess in my bedroom. It was only when I heard the scratching as I was about to drift off to sleep that I remembered what I had done. I pulled the bowl out and there was the hamster. It seemed fine and had even munched a small amount of the apple. I fell asleep thinking what a wonderful animal lover I was and how I was going to cherish that hamster for years to come. The next morning I woke up from the most marvellous dream. I dreamt I had a whole house full of hamsters which I had bred and sold and had made me my fortune. I leapt over to the trusty Rainbow Brite stationary and began another permission note as I had before. After school I delivered the letter to the couldn't-care-less petshop owner and once again I was on my way home with another tiny ball of fluff. This time I improvised with a saucepan and fed both of my new little friends half a carrot each. And so I continued in this way until the end of the week. On Thursday and Friday I had bought two hamsters each day with the money I had borrowed from the pound jar in the front room so by Friday evening I had seven hamsters. I had used jugs and vases and pots to house them all under my bed. Although my bedroom had developed the faint smell of animal urine my rescue mission had gone completely undetected by my mother. It had been a complete success. I had saved the hamsters from the terrible pig in the woolly knit and I was well on my way to becoming a rich and famous hamster breeder. On Saturday morning I shunned the usual over excited kids television shows to start my hamster empire. I had a vague knowledge of how babies where made that being you needed a mummy and a daddy. The problem was I didn't know which of my hamsters were male or female. I solved this by grouping all of the hamsters into the largest saucepan and hoping for the best. I worried they might form a rodent ladder so I placed a book over the top of the pan to stop any from escaping. I thought it rude to hang about so I skipped off down the stairs to grab my breakfast and catch up with the telly.
It was lunchtime when I decided to check on the hamster party. I reached in under the bed taking note there were no scratching noises coming from the pan. I put this down to exhaustion and settled down cross-legged on the bedroom floor. I lifted the Care Bear annual from off the pan. I peered inside. Dear God! I let out an ear piercing scream. You would have heard me ten doors down. Inside the pan it looked like someone had replaced my gang of hamsters with a large handful of chicken giblets. Unfortunately, this was not what had happened. On further inspection I could see fur and hamster body parts all submerged in dark red blood. When I had encased the critters in their Tefal tomb they must have been sent into a frenzied panic and had starting eating one another. I was horrified. I started to gag and I vomited just as my mother entered the room. "Sweet baby Jesus!", exclaimed my mother when she saw the hamster hell which had now been sprayed with my sick. I don't know what happened next. I think I fainted. I remember for weeks after being called a strange girl and receiving odd looks from various family members when they came to visit.

The End.

(I would like to add that I am very, very sorry about what happened. I became a vegetarian after the horrific incident and still to this day I shun all red meat and only eat chicken if I am slightly drunk or extremely hungry and there is nothing else on the menu). 

The worst date ever. (Well, one of them.)

My Hideous Life. A collection of short stories.: The worst date ever. (Well, one of them.): It was a boring Saturday at work. As I polished the cabinets for the sixth time that morning I stared in at the disgusting, gaudy jewellery ...