Part 16: In which these tales come to an end

In the spring, Billy became sluggish again. Eating, wheeling, and rolling in his sand bath seemed to be losing their charms. He crouched down in the shredded paper in the corner of the big hut, giving me only a half-hearted nip when I reached in to pick him up.

I wondered if he had a virus, so I called to make an appointment that day with the local vet. ("Has he been in here before?" asked the receptionist. "No, but his mother has and he looks a lot like her.")

In the examining room, Billy roused himself enough to bite the vet. The vet then sent me home with a bottle of liquid antibiotic and a can of "soft" food to feed Billy. It took both Ted and me to hold him still so that we could drop the antibiotic into his mouth, although once it was there, he seemed to relish it. The soft food was another story. It smelled fishy, and Billy turned from it in disgust: "I'm a hamster! You know what you can do with that stinkin' cat food." We finally blended cooked chicken, yogurt, cucumber, and wheat germ and came up with a mixture he would lick off our fingers.

I got a referral for the following week to a vet who specialized in small animals. But even though Billy rallied a bit, he didn't make it through the weekend. He began sinking fast on Sunday, losing his strength and his appetite. We held him for a while and then put him back in his nest to lie there in peace. Sometime during the evening, his little spark went out. In the morning, we buried him next to Baby in the garden.

Yes, we still have hamsters. But that's a tale for another time. These tales belong to Billy and Baby -- and Francoise, too! -- who were, and always will be, first.