Planet Mad

Fatso's death hasn't really sunk in yet. I still look in his cage when I walk into my sitting room, expecting to see him scampering about, or at least snuggled up in his purple bedding. It seems strange to think that he's not there. I'll never forget the special experiment to ascertain exactly how many chewy-bar-thing he could get in his cheek pouches* nor the fact that he used to squeak along to the Beach Boys** He would also provide great amusement during my nights on duty, where he would venture up to visit the girls and would get fussed more in twenty minutes that I would manage in a week. He even went on holiday***, had such a fan club that he was sent hamster porn by email**** and was brought presents from afar.

Fatso 3 has a lot to live up to.

* Answer: six. He might have managed more but he got stuck in the doorway of his house and was reluctant to eat more.
** Proving what a cool and culcha'd ham he really was
***To the Biology Department, where he got to play with gerbils, stick insects and tarantulas
**** To his own email address, of course: I might be a luddite but he wasn't