I, Houdini

My worst trial here was imprisonment. I say ‘was’ because luckily it happens less and less now. The Father is my worst enemy in this respect. He has very fixed ideas about ‘pets’ (as I suppose I must laughingly call myself, taking the human point of view). “Pets are all right in their place,” he keeps on saying. (He does tend to repeat things, a sign of a small mind). His notion of my place is, of course, my cage, and wherever and whenever he catches me, he grabs me up and stuffs me back through that dreaded little entrance-tunnel, and claps in the round stopper. He never seems to believe it when the boys tell him I’ve even found a way round that.

Anyway, it doesn’t worry me too much any more. The Mother, or one of the children, will soon take pity on me if I just go about it the right way, if I can’t get out by myself. So I just whip up the tubes into my loft, unearth something tasty from my store, and then curl up and go to sleep. I must say it’s quite cosy up there since they put the bits of flannel shirt in, though I much prefer my nest under the kitchen floor. One does tend to prefer a home of one’s own choice, arranged and decorated to suit oneself.

Here I go, rambling on about the present when I really meant to tell the story of my life. I just wanted to make it crystal clear that I am – well, shall we say, rather unusual? Rambling has always been one of my weaknesses, I just have to follow my nose wherever it takes me – and some fine scrapes it’s led me into, I must say!

Well, so I am, as I say, a rather extraordinary and quite exceptional ‘little furry animal’ as some people call anything smaller than a pony which runs around on four legs and can’t actually talk. I call them large hairless animals, and I try to use, in my thought, the same degree of superiority that humans do about us. I must admit that nothing infuriates me more than being treated as a pet, picked up, stroked (usually the wrong way), made to climb or jump or run or whatever it is my supposed owners want – and as for eating from their hands and all that sort of degrading nonsense, I’ve no time for it.

Mind you, my protest against this sort of thing is, nowadays, limited to trying to avoid it by escaping, which is my speciality (hence my name). I wouldn’t dream of biting, which I regard as very uncivilised behaviour. ‘Brain, not brawn’ is my motto. Besides, they’re so vulnerable with their bare skins, it’s not really sporting when you’ve got jaws and teeth like mine. I won’t say I’ve never bitten anyone, but the feeling of shame I had after letting myself go was awful, not to mention the disgusting taste…

Anyway, as I said, I was bought (it sounds so quaint!) from wherever-it-was and brought here at an early age. I wasn’t half the size I am now, and of course I was entirely ignorant. I didn’t even know that I was a hamster, let alone a golden one – I learnt that from listening to the children, whose speech I soon picked up just by keeping my ears open.

At first I was too agitated to learn anything, however. I well remember my first night here. They put me into a deep cardboard box with some water and grain in separate bowls. I don’t suppose they meant to keep me there.

They hadn’t bought a cage yet, which was silly of them, because inside ten minutes I had discovered that my claws could get quite an easy grip on the roughish sides of the box, provided I used the corner to give myself purchase as I climbed. It took three or four attempts, but I am nothing if not persevering and I was soon hanging over the top. It looked rather a long way to the floor (amazing, when I think of the heights I can jump now!) but even then I was no coward, and half-jumped, half-slithered down the outside, head first.

I was in a large, open area which I now know like the back of my paw, but which was a whole unknown world to me then. Like the idiot I am not, as a rule, I hadn’t stored any of the grain in my cheeks before leaving the box, and now I was free I could have done with a morsel of something, but it was too late to think of that. Escape was then, as now, my main objective, and I was about to sample my first taste of real freedom.

The area was a room which the Father uses as a kind of workshop. Apart from the kitchen, where my nest is, I think it’s now my favourite room in the house, because it is so beautifully untidy. It is full of things to explore and wonderful places to hide, and I spent the rest of that night doing both to my heart’s content. You must remember, I’d never been free before, and I’m certain that this first blissful taste of it was what gave me my life-long passion for escape, concealment and exploration.

I climbed into tool boxes and under heaps of sacking; clambered up a big soft mountain which turned out to be a battered armchair, and fell off into a wastepaper basket (fortunately wicker – those smooth-sided metal ones are death-traps to me). I ran behind huge bits of furniture and took a quick nap under a lovely warm radiator (after foolishly trying to climb up it and burning my paws. I was always very wary of sources of heat after that).

I made several attempts to climb the telephone wire, and got so exasperated because I couldn’t that I eventually chewed it right through. I chewed quite a lot of other things as well. I didn’t know any better in those days, or for quite a while afterwards, to tell the truth. I’m afraid those teeth of mine, with their constant need of being worn down lest they grow through my skin, led me to be very destructive when I was young. I’ve often made excuses for the Father’s intolerant attitude to me because of this. But of course I didn’t know anything about destructiveness then. When I saw something chewable, I just chewed, and I chewed a fair amount that first night, I can tell you. Apart from anything else I was trying to find something to eat.

Eventually the obvious solution occurred to me. I went back to the box. It wasn’t hard to find, even in that vast area, because of the delicious smells of food and water pouring over the top of it. I didn’t think I could climb back into it because the corners were the wrong sort from outside, but I walked round it and found they’d carelessly left it standing against a pile of telephone directories. Of course I was up these like a flight of steps, plopped back into the box, had a long drink and stuffed my cheeks till they would hold no more. It was a lot harder to climb out with all that load weighing me down, but determination won the day and soon I was safe and warm under the radiator having a good feast before settling down for my day’s well-earned sleep.

Well, I didn’t sleep long, needless to say. I had hardly dozed off before an appalling hullabaloo broke out in the vicinity of my abandoned box.

“He’s gone! Goldy’s gone!” shrieked Guy, who was then only five. He’d come to say good morning to me before going to school, and, finding me gone, fell into an uproar. Floods of tears, wails and cries – dear me, it was all very unpleasant and deplorable. I knew nothing about the modern child in those days and was both alarmed and shocked. (I seem to remember now that my Mother used to nip us if we so much as squeaked. Perhaps that’s why I hardly ever utter a sound.)

His two brothers, Mark and Adam (as I later learnt were their names) came running in, followed by the Mother. A search was put in hand, and I would have been speedily found if I had not scurried off, keeping to the wall which was luckily blocked in by furniture for most of its length, to a tailor-made hiding-place I had noted the night before. I had not chosen it for my day-nest for two reasons. One, I hadn’t known I was in any danger, so security had not seemed more important than warmth and comfort. Two, it was dirty. I never liked the smell of dust, and I am fastidious, so I have never ventured into dirty places except in an emergency. But this was one – I could see the Mother’s feet bearing down on me across the boarded floor – so I just slipped through a hole in the skirting and found myself in a draughty dark cave.

Instinct told me I was now perfectly safe. There were so many places I could have been concealed that, to the boys’ rage and dismay, the Mother soon told them that the hunt was hopeless. They were bundled off to school, bitterly complaining, and Guy still, alas, in tears. Later in my life I gained enough sensibility to feel uneasy if I had made any of the children sad, but at that time I had no room in my heart for anything but selfish satisfaction that I had evaded them.

I made a rough nest for myself in the inch-deep fluff, put my nose between my back legs and fell instantly asleep.

Chapter Two (#ulink_5e15d6c1-a360-5ec1-b446-a1676b163948)

I was captured again the same night.

I had made the mistake of de-cheeking all the grain I had brought from the box, under the radiator, where I had had to leave it when I ran to the hole. So when I woke up in the evening, I was starving. I remembered at once where the food was and, cautiously emerging from my hiding-place, crept back along the wall to reclaim my little hoard.

It was gone. True, I found two or three grains of wheat and one sunflower seed, which I gobbled up. There was still a strong smell of food, so I poked my nose out from under the radiator and saw a trail of grain leading temptingly off into the distance – right across the open floor. Fool that I was (then), I trotted obligingly out to collect up this trail, but was scarcely halfway along when I was pounced on.

I got the fright of my life, and I may be forgiven for trying to bite on that occasion – anyone would have done the same. But the Father (it was he who had trapped me) had a thick glove on, and my teeth were not then what they are now. Holding me firmly he carried me some distance and then put me down.

I stopped hissing (I no longer hiss when enraged, but most primitive hamsters do – it is a danger signal) and looked round. I was in a deep plastic bin with straight, shiny walls. I didn’t bother to entertain the Father, who was hanging over the top watching me, by trying to climb them – one look showed me it was useless. I simply crouched where I was, seething with fury. After a while the giant head above me vanished, and I heard his voice calling the children.

Soon their three faces were hanging above me. They were all grinning with excitement.

“How did you catch him, Daddy?” (Of course I didn’t understand the actual words then, but my imagination must be allowed some rein here.)

This question, put by Adam, was followed by a self-satisfied description of his brilliant coup by the Father. Meanwhile Guy’s little hand crept towards me, fingers temptingly extended. The middle one, as it approached my face, was just the perfect diameter for my mouth to enclose, and it must be remembered, in mitigation of the crime I then committed, that I had just been caught and imprisoned by one too big and well-gloved for me to revenge myself on. Nevertheless it was nothing less than wicked of me to sink my teeth into that little bare fingertip and I cannot now think of it without shame.

The truly awful shriek that followed simply shattered my nerves. I think it was the noise, more than the taste, that taught me my first lesson in manners. The Mother rushed in and carried Guy off. Adam and Mark began scolding me. The commotion was terrifying. Though I couldn’t then make out the exact words, I knew that everyone was angry with me, and that the Father was threatening me. All my own anger had melted away into fear and confusion.

I cowered down, but the inside of the plastic dustbin (that was where he’d put me) offered no hiding-place and I felt dreadfully exposed. Nothing is worse than having nowhere to hide. Even my eyes were hurt by the bright light, and I shut them. After a while the hubbub died down. I ventured to look up. The rim of the bin, far above me, was blank – all the faces had gone. I felt frightened and miserable. I ran round a few times and put my front paws up against those slippery unclimbable sides. No use. I crouched there, filled with a sense of hopelessness, for I had no experience to fall back on which might have told me what to expect.

I had fallen into a miserable half-sleep when something soft fell on me. Opening my eyes with a jerk of fright, I found myself covered with some light, soft stuff, which blocked off some of the light and gave me the feeling of being safe and hidden. I began at once to make a nest in it.

Once I glanced up. The Mother was hanging over the rim, watching me. She spoke to me, but not harshly. Considering I’d recently bitten her young one, I realise now she was showing a very forgiving nature. Also an understanding one, for when her natural anger cooled, she had realised what I needed most – bedding – and had given me some paper shavings.

Some time later she brought me a dish of food and some water, but by that time, I was comfortably asleep and I didn’t find it till I woke up in the evening.

Evenings are always my active time. I had had a good sleep, despite my upset, and when I’d had something to eat I felt ready for anything. And soon enough things started to happen.

Mark arrived. He was wearing gloves now, thick leather ones, though if he had but known it there was no need for them – nothing short of a direct attack on me would have induced me to bite him. Very cautiously he reached down and, after a short chase – I was not anxious to be picked up – caught and lifted me.

Now, I have said I don’t mind being held – not for long periods. But I don’t mind sitting in between two warm hands, well supported by the one below and gently stroked by the one above. This pleasant experience now happened to me for the first time. I was nervous of course, and trembled a good bit, but Mark has a feeling for animals and I sensed this at once, the way one can. He put his face close to me and his warm, boy-smelling breath came over me. I don’t know why, but being breathed on by a human gives one confidence, provided, of course, once does not instinctively sense danger. There was nothing menacing about Mark’s breath, and his face looked kind and interested.

We stared and breathed at each other for some moments. Then I tried to get away. I always do this after being held for a short time. It’s really no more than a natural restlessness. Mark endeared himself to me by understanding this. He relaxed his upper hand and let me run up his arm. He was wearing a woollen sweater which gave me ample footholds – I love climbing up rough knitted surfaces – and I was soon exploring his shoulders, poking my nose between his collar and his neck, and even sniffing around his pink ears. He wriggled and giggled. I suppose I was tickling him. After a while he lifted me down again, stroked me soothingly for a few minutes more, and then laid me gently on his knee.

Now it shouldn’t be thought that I had been deliberately lulling him into a sense of false security by not trying to escape before. I was too far from the ground then, and I knew it. But now he was sitting down and I had only to make a dash head-first down his trouser-leg and I was on the floor and running like mad.

Mark dived after me, but too late. I had dashed under the frill of a sofa-cover and by the time he had lifted it to peer underneath, I was already three pieces of furniture away, crouching beneath a desk. The next thing was an upright piano, but there was quite a gap between the desk and it, and I could see Mark’s shoes, turning slowly in the middle of the floor, watching for me to make a dash. I waited till the heels were towards me and then I ran. Ran! I skimmed. Mark just caught a glimpse of me and spun round, but too late! I was safely behind the piano and there was nothing he could do about it.

It was not a very well-made piano, and it was easy enough to get in through a hole in the back. The innards were fascinating, quite the most exciting playground I had even been in. Human athletes, whom I have seen on television, have gyms to exercise in, with all sorts of apparatus. Hamsters have pianos – at least, they should all have them, if humans were understanding enough or the hamsters themselves were cunning enough to escape and find them. I would certainly recommend a good upright piano to any hamster who fancied himself as an athlete.

It was in my piano that I first learnt muscle-control, agility, how to fall correctly, how to swing by front and back paws, how to jump horizontally, diagonally and perpendicularly and, of course, how to climb. I mean really climb, where some might find the going impossible. Nothing could be more useful, believe me, in the life of an escapologist who frequently has to fend and forage for himself. If I had not trained in the piano, I doubt if I could have navigated the vegetable rack, let alone climbed up into the biscuit drawer, three shelves up in the kitchen cupboard…But I must not get ahead of my story.

Well! If I had enjoyed my freedom in the Father’s workroom, how much more did I enjoy the fun of my freedom in the piano! I may say that before the night was out I had thoroughly explored most of its lower half, though I was not yet skilful enough to mount to its higher regions. I was fortunate in one thing. It should have been perfectly dark in there, for how could light get in? Yet it was not. Quite a lot of light filtered down from somewhere above, as if through a window, and, until the family (who had given up hunting for me) had gone to bed, switching off the lights, I was able to enjoy myself, clambering around swinging, diving, and so on, to my heart’s content.

When the darkness did come, I was able to come out of the piano (I was still small and supple enough in those days to squeeze through the holes around the pedals) and give the whole living-room a good going over before bedding down in the wastepaper basket among the bits of paper and cigarette packets. I was completely hidden and felt quite safe.

Alas! The short jump I had had to make to get down into the basket from the upholstered chair had misled me – I thought in my ignorance it would be equally easy to getout. But the sides of this container were not wicker, but metal, and thus in the morning I was speedily detected because of my frantic scrabblings among the rustling papers.

Back to the bin. But I was not in despair this time. Experience had taught me that opportunities for escape would present themselves if I waited patiently. And so they did.

Chapter Three (#ulink_7bfa2dfa-0f64-5c1d-b304-1b2ea5994554)

How I hated that bin! Even with the shavings, and various bits and pieces the boys put in from time to time, it was a loathsome dungeon to me. Not only could I not get out; I couldn’t see out. There was no way to take any real exercise; nothing to play with (I was still a youngster then, and needed toys) and nothing to do. No challenges. No opportunities. No amusements. Only – after that first, blissful outing – hope.

I was taken out fairly frequently, once the boys realised that that one bite had been an aberration. They all became fond of me (as I of them, in a way) and liked to take me out and play with me, especially as an alternative to helping their Mother, doing their homework or practising the piano. (I’m sorry to say not one of them is what I’d call diligent.)

But it was not every time that I could elude them. They were obviously pretty careful after my escape from Mark. I don’t blame them for that. It became clear to me from the beginning that our views and objectives were, and presumably always would be, quite different – even opposed. They regarded me as their pet, their plaything – their possession. They wanted to know where I was, to know that I was available whenever they wanted me. I knew myself to be a freedom-loving individual, belonging to no one. I wanted to be free, to live my own life in my own way. It wasn’t so much that I positively objected to being fed, petted and played with. I just knew, right from the start, that the whole business of my life was to be – escape.

The boys soon knew it too. That was why they changed my name. This happened after I’d been in the house about a week, and had escaped four times. The fourth time I ran away from Adam.

Adam, who is a bit of a fibber, will tell you I bit him. Nonsense. No need. Adam is a highly imaginative child – not a coward at all, but hampered by being able to picture to himself what may happen and how certain unpleasant eventualities would hurt. Thus one only has to give a sudden jump in his hand and he will drop one like a hot brick. Sometimes it’s enough to turn one’s head swiftly towards his thumb, without even baring one’s teeth…The thing is, not to do it when he is standing up, and always to be ready for the drop when he lets go.