I rummage through the supply bag Philip left behind and find the small wooden cave Philip had scrubbed after Friday night’s equally glamorous digestive episode.
That should do.
I place it in the same corner and close the cage.
Heath waddles over.
Sniffs it.
Circles it.
Sniffs it again.
Then starts pawing frantically at the wood shavings, nosing under it, shoving his face into corners like he’s trying to locate the missing hat by scent alone.
I watch him for a moment.
Heath continues his increasingly offended search.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
I head upstairs to my bedroom and pull open the bottom drawer of the wardrobe.
Winter stuff. Scarves. Gloves. A couple of old wool beanies I haven’t worn in months.
I grab a dark blue one and head back down.
“This is not a precedent,” I tell him.
Back at the cage, I remove the wooden cave and drop the beanie into the corner.
The transformation is immediate.
Heath scurries forward, dives inside, turns three frantic circles, and vanishes.
Stillness.
I stare.
Then let out a short laugh.
“You high-maintenance little bastard.”
A twitch of blue wool is my only answer.
I crouch down and lift one edge of the beanie.
Heath is curled into a tight little ball inside it, nose tucked under himself, already looking marginally less betrayed by life.
I take a photo.
Then another because the first one is blurry.
Then stare at both for a second longer than any sane man should spend reviewing hamster portraits.
Ridiculous.
On impulse, I send the better one to Callum.
