Hamster Monologue

I was on my old well-known hamster-wheel. My tiny legs were hurting, and I was eagerly yearning for a glass of milk. The room was filled with Sam’s silent snores. Scanning and turning. I was getting distracted. Suddenly, my eyes got fixed beyond the curtains, and my limbs worked in rotation…afternoon...evening...night...morning...afternoon...evening...night...morning. With a fearsome yawn, and acrobatic movements, Sam crawled out of her bed and turned my cage towards her. She peered in and explained for the hundredth morning, “I’ve been having bad chest congestion, Ham. I wouldn’t snore on other days.” She snores louder on other days! I drank my cold milk and ate a few millet grains. My whole body was aching from strain. I was bored. Thoroughly bored! The metal surrounding me, the plastic wheel I run on, the paper I sleep on, and the grains I eat started to grow in size. I watched them and my eyes started popping out. Imagining me in a psycho-therapist’s office, I started running the wheel on that path. Faster, faster, and yet again, faster! I ran, ran and ran again. Then, I jumped off and sipped on that milk. That’s it! I was bored. I was bored, but not with these things. I was bored, with the hamster. I climbed on to the wheel, and slowly started it. Round and round and round again. “Sam, Sam,” I shouted. She turned aimlessly towards my direction and in a foolish manner I shouted at her, “Sam, I need to go. I need to run. Let me go,” as I said this, the cage turned into a kaleidoscope. It changed colours and turned again and again. My ears were twitching. Pink. Blue. Orange. Purple. Hope. “You look gorgeous on that wheel, Ham. I love you,” she said as she refilled my milk tray.