The hamster is so strong-willed. I'm baffled as to what I should do. I keep thinking that my wide hips are not the only thing that will guarantee my being a good mother. I am probably the worst temporary hammie caregiver in the world. I sigh, but then realize she will probably never be satisfied until she is in an environment with absolutely no enclosures or even corners. I can't give that kind of life, and if I tried, her life would be taken away so quickly it'd be like active euthanasia. Like, RULLY active euthanasia.
This is crass, but it is also so true: she is a poop machine. This is what you get in diaryland--crass revelations not meant for public consumption, but revealed falling through cracks of mixed 3am emotions.
The 3:07 train just shook our house, so I think it is my time to go to bed. The hamster, however, will probably keep climbing up her water bottle and flailing her limbs at the roof of her cage. Not to toot my own horn, but I'd say this is a very educated and informed wager.