Which, admittedly, was not an unreasonable summary.
I had ignored all of them.
For nearly forty minutes, Heath had remained hidden and offended while Mum cut cucumber into pieces with the concentration of a Michelin chef.
Then Lily discovered that tapping the side of the cage made him move.
One enthusiastic niece drumming on plastic.
One horrified squeak from inside the beanie.
One hamster launching himself into complete nervous collapse.
And one truly impressive quantity of panic-induced shit.
Mum had reacted first.
“Lily, absolutely not!”
Daniel had laughed so hard he nearly choked on Yorkshire pudding.
Tom had announced, “Bloody hell, he’s detonated.”
Dad, traitorously useless, had said, “Well, that can’t be ideal.”
Meanwhile I had been trying to get the cage open while Heath ricocheted around like a furry jumping bean in emotional crisis.
Not my finest hour.
Mum had hustled the kids away, fetched kitchen roll, and informed my brothers that if either of them made one more joke she would write them out of the will.
They made several more jokes.
One child banging at the cage and the poor little bastard had all but left his soul.
I look over at the beanie lump now.
Yeah.
Sophie’s house with two boys would have finished him by Wednesday.
At least one sensible choice was made this weekend.
I start unpacking his supplies.
Food in one cupboard.
Treats in another.
Fresh wood shavings under the sink.
Heath noses out just enough to blink at me with deep distrust.
“You survived.”
He disappears again.
I pull my phone from my pocket.
