“Your hamster’s called Heath.”
“Yes.”
I huff out a breath. “That’s a very serious name for a hamster.”
“It’s short for Hamster Heath from Hampstead Heath,” he says, like that explains everything.
“That's actually adorable,” I chuckle.
“It suits him,” Philip adds defensively.
“I’m sure it does.”
There’s a beat.
“He’s at home,” Philip says, suddenly more focused. “On his own.”
“And that’s a problem.”
“Yes,” he says, sharper now. “That’s a problem. He doesn’t like being left.”
“How much does he not like it.”
“He can cope for a few hours. If I leave him for the weekend, he’ll shit himself," Philip sighs.
I snort. “Right.”
“I’m serious,” he says. “Full on. Stress-induced. Everywhere. It’s a whole situation.”
“Okay.”
“I can’t just leave him there knowing that’s what’s going to happen.”
I nod once. “Then we go get him.”
He stops.
“You’re not serious.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve just met me.”
“Yeah.”
“And your solution to ‘my hamster shits himself when he’s stressed’ is ‘bring him along.’”
“He won’t be on his own this way.”
There’s a beat.
Then it hits both of us.
He laughs first.
Not polite. Not controlled. Head tipping back slightly, hand dragging through his hair like he can’t quite believe what’s coming out of his own mouth.
I follow a second later.
