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the life and times of professor apocalypse my hamster and I are drifting apart words dani lurie, illustration laura callaghan
Professor Apocalypse is going to die soon. I give him a year at most. I fear that one day I will come home to find him lying motionless in his cage, sprawled across a pile of cotton wool with his tiny hand clutching at his chest. Maybe his heart will give out. Maybe he’ll choke on a particularly large monkey nut. I still haven’t ruled out the possibility of cancer, having discovered a couple of scaly brown moles on his furry hindquarters. Or maybe it will simply be old age that gets him in the end, and he will pass away peacefully in his sleep at the ripe old age of two. Professor Apocalypse is my pet hamster. He came into my life two years ago. The twitchy ball of fur, just a few weeks old, was brought over by a recreational hamster breeder who I’d found through Gumtree. He became a novelty, a kind of mascot for our dishevelled house of twenty-somethings. Visitors would press their noses up against the plastic walls of the cage, trying to catch a glimpse of the little guy. They’d tap gently on the sides in an effort to draw him out of his self-made palace of wood shavings and hamster pellets. People would ask after him constantly: “How’s the Professor?” I’d reply, amused, “Oh, he’s doing just fine.” The idea of the hamster, even his ridiculous name, existed long before he did. I had wanted a pet of my own ever since I came to London. I desperately missed the company of creatures. Growing up in the suburbs of Australia, there was always at least one happily overfed Labrador lolling about the house, not to mention the wild menagerie of lizards and insects lurking in the corners. However, space in the Big Smoke was always an issue, and so were roommates and tenant agreements, and I knew that I had to bide my time. After a few years of shoebox bedrooms, I finally moved into a space big enough to accommodate a small cage. What finally sealed the deal was a particularly unceremonious break-up, when I reasoned that I really just needed something to let me hold them. The average lifespan of the Syrian hamster is two to three years, and the Professor has seen most of that time already. I knew this would happen. When I first held him between my hands, I was fully aware that I was going to outlive him many times over, and I decided that I was going to love him anyway. I’m sure that he would have preferred spending his brief time on earth scampering about the Aleppinian Plateau, instead of on a stationary wheel in a room in Hackney, even if I did buy him the fanciest one I could find. But I tried my best to make his life a happy one. We’ve grown apart, though, the Professor and I. We don’t hang out like we used to. He doesn’t perk up when I come home, doesn’t climb onto my hand when I offer it. He keeps to himself more than ever, and with each passing week, he emerges from his hideaway nest less and less. Maybe he’s just become an old man running out the clock. Maybe I’m waiting it out, too. I guess it makes it easier. I do love that little guy but, in the end, we’re just ships passing in the night.
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the life and times of professor apocalypse my hamster and I are drifting apart words dani lurie, illustration laura callaghan
Professor Apocalypse is going to die soon. I give him a year at most. I fear that one day I will come home to find him lying motionless in his cage, sprawled across a pile of cotton wool with his tiny hand clutching at his chest. Maybe his heart will give out. Maybe he’ll choke on a particularly large monkey nut. I still haven’t ruled out the possibility of cancer, having discovered a couple of scaly brown moles on his furry hindquarters. Or maybe it will simply be old age that gets him in the end, and he will pass away peacefully in his sleep at the ripe old age of two. Professor Apocalypse is my pet hamster. He came into my life two years ago. The twitchy ball of fur, just a few weeks old, was brought over by a recreational hamster breeder who I’d found through Gumtree. He became a novelty, a kind of mascot for our dishevelled house of twenty-somethings. Visitors would press their noses up against the plastic walls of the cage, trying to catch a glimpse of the little guy. They’d tap gently on the sides in an effort to draw him out of his self-made palace of wood shavings and hamster pellets. People would ask after him constantly: “How’s the Professor?” I’d reply, amused, “Oh, he’s doing just fine.” The idea of the hamster, even his ridiculous name, existed long before he did. I had wanted a pet of my own ever since I came to London. I desperately missed the company of creatures. Growing up in the suburbs of Australia, there was always at least one happily overfed Labrador lolling about the house, not to mention the wild menagerie of lizards and insects lurking in the corners. However, space in the Big Smoke was always an issue, and so were roommates and tenant agreements, and I knew that I had to bide my time. After a few years of shoebox bedrooms, I finally moved into a space big enough to accommodate a small cage. What finally sealed the deal was a particularly unceremonious break-up, when I reasoned that I really just needed something to let me hold them. The average lifespan of the Syrian hamster is two to three years, and the Professor has seen most of that time already. I knew this would happen. When I first held him between my hands, I was fully aware that I was going to outlive him many times over, and I decided that I was going to love him anyway. I’m sure that he would have preferred spending his brief time on earth scampering about the Aleppinian Plateau, instead of on a stationary wheel in a room in Hackney, even if I did buy him the fanciest one I could find. But I tried my best to make his life a happy one. We’ve grown apart, though, the Professor and I. We don’t hang out like we used to. He doesn’t perk up when I come home, doesn’t climb onto my hand when I offer it. He keeps to himself more than ever, and with each passing week, he emerges from his hideaway nest less and less. Maybe he’s just become an old man running out the clock. Maybe I’m waiting it out, too. I guess it makes it easier. I do love that little guy but, in the end, we’re just ships passing in the night.