We’re in the pet shop, and our girls are choosing their hamsters. It’s a big moment. At 5 and 7, they’ve waited more than half their lives to choose their furry pets. For the first time all day, they’re moving slowly, eyeing each hamster carefully—wanting to make sure the right choice is made.

Hurry up, we think in our minds. We’ve been here a while now. But outwardly we encourage them to take their time. This is a tough choice. The hamster can’t be returned.

Careful deliberation is over as they each point out their new friend. The hamsters are placed in paper carry boxes and off we go with our new household friends.

We take the bus home, and as I hold the box, a scratching noise emerges. Passengers look over, saying with their expressions, Is everything all right here? I smile wanly and they turn back in their seats.

As the scratching gets louder, I can’t help but peer into the box. Oh no! The hamster is starting to eat its way through the cardboard. I show my husband Julian. “This bus better move quick,” he whispers.

Finally, our stop appears. We exit as fast as we can. “Hurry up, girls!” We run across the street with every effort to beat the looming escape.

Months later, and Mr. Fluffy Pants and Hamsty are part of the household. They love running on their hamster wheels and scooting through the plastic tunnels where they live.

Until one day, Mr. Fluffy Pants, who with a healthy appetite had, unbeknownst to us, apparently grew somewhat under all that fur, and began his morning run through the tunnel. But as he ran through, he suddenly stopped, mid-run, his body retained by the tube. Mr. Fluffy Pants was stuck.

“Daddy!” Izzy cried out. “Daddy! Come here, quick!”

That feeling of terror that something’s wrong had us up the stairs in seconds.

“What is it? What is........

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