Tommy Gun
Madeleine loves this hamster who, I admit, the cutest of the bunch we have so far enjoyed (I recall from my own yuf that hamsters are a trial-and-error sort of thing. They escape. They die. The pet store has an endless supply). On the week end, Madeleine brings Tommy downstairs 3-4X a day for a cuddle and the poor, shell-shocked, creature puts on a good face, being woken from its deep daily slumber. Yesterday, however, Tommy decides enough is enough and gets his front teeth into Madeleine's plump, middle, finger. All hell breaks loose as the poor kid screams - Sonnet and I bolt for her - then tears. Oh, sweet tears! We gently wash our darling's finger then sanitise and bandage the wound while soothing her anxiety. A trail of red blood follows us from Madeleine's bedroom to the sink. Poor child, innocence lost. Today, Madeleine unable to practice her trumpet since "my pushing finger" still hurts. The ramifications, dear reader, profound.
