Adoption

One day, many years ago, I arrived home from elementary school to find my mother and my brother seated across from each other at the kitchen table, both sobbing as if their hearts were being torn from them. This was a touch unusual, and my eyes went immediately to the most obvious likely culprit – a small, white-wire cage in the center of the kitchen table.

Obviously this was some sort of “Pandora’s Cage,” and had released the world’s anguishes or some such thing. Why else would they be enduring such suffering? I leaned closer to see for myself, since neither of my family members was capable of any sort of clear communication. Huddled in the corner of the blue-bottomed cage, hunched so that a tiny little orange-furred back was protruding in an attractively rounded manner, was an itty-bitty hamster. This was delightful, and I could determine no good reason for it to bring about such despair. Then - as I watched -the back heaved and shook in a desperate manner. A sound rose out of the small cage-corner, and I realized with shock that the delicate little thing was crying. The picture became – suddenly – very clear.

This pitiful little creature was clearly miserable, and to witness such agony did tug at the heartstrings. My inquiries as to the cause of this critter’s grief were met with gasps and scattered words: a rudimentary sort of communication that left much to the imagination. I was able to surmise that the little hamster – a female – had been purchased that very day, and that since being separated from her little hamster family she had been sobbing nonstop. This was sad, indeed. I took a few moments to absorb this sadness and then – seeing that nothing could be done for it at that precise moment – retreated to the recliner in the living room to read a book. There I did my best to ignore the sobs and wails from all three parties at the nearby kitchen table.

Things continued, much the same, for quite some time – until my father walked through the door. Upon witnessing such a scene of grief, he immediately (and – some could argue – logically) assumed that something very bad had happened. In my father’s eyes, “very bad” cannot – by definition – include any harm befalling any member of the rodent family. The demise of rodentia could – more often – be classified as “very good” in my father’s opinion. Therefore, he reasonably concluded that harm had befallen a family member. The situation was not improved by my mother’s inability to choke out an answer to his urgent inquiries. The sobs would not allow for it.

Still seated in the living room, without looking up from my book, I explained the situation to my father. His disgust was all too obvious.

From the corner of the tiny cage, in the center of the kitchen table, rose the desperate wail of the furred creature that we had – apparently – destroyed the life of in one thoughtless act. In unison, creating a surround-sound sort of effect, my mother and brother joined her.