He slowed down a little more this week, seeming to at last realize that he was quite an old hamster. It's impossible to say how old, but we adopted him two years ago, and he was an adult then. Two-and-a-half? Three? Very old. Very venerable.
We came home on Thursday to exactly what we expected: Sherman and Arthur in their clubhouse, and Sherman cuddled around his father. Arthur had just left, and Sherman slept on. Mike remarked, more than once, "I've never seen a hamster look so peaceful at the end."
Arthur was always sweet and genial, the kind of hamster you would've sought out for financial planning advice or for a bistro lunch and a scurry around a plaza fountain. He was dignified, agreeable, and accessible.
He loved all things hamsters love, but his real and unexpected talent was in managing wild Milkbones. He'd wrestle them any time, anywhere - Arthur was always ready for a throwdown.
And when he had them subdued, he'd skin one side of the Milkbone, leaving the other side pristine, a prank to trick visitors into thinking his trophies were still alive. The only other hamster I've seen do this is Sherman, who of course was taught by his da.
Sherman is now our only boy left in this diminished hamily of six. He's doing well. Briefly anxious, a little more social, but not upset. Sherman himself is almost two, old for a dwarf. We scoured Craigslist and even went to four pet stores looking for some too-young-to-question-Sherman's-authority companionship for our most friendly hamster, but no luck. Sherman, for the first time in his life, will have to live alone.
That night I gave him a special treat of a peanut to bully. Last night he ran a little before womping on some Milkbones. I think he'll be okay.
Arthur, you were a grand little hamster. Enjoy your newest adventures!
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