Sam Kandej

Freddy the Syrian Hamster by Sam Kandej

Freddy the Syrian Hamster by Sam Kandej Syrian hamsters can live up to three years. ONLY three years. Just imagine: you adopt a baby hamster when he’s two or three months old in 2026, and then he’s a senior in 2028. I don’t want to talk about his death, as this story is NOT a sad one. I adopted Freddy when he was three months old. My younger brother had bought him from a local pet store for only a pound, but he soon lost interest in poor Freddy as if a hamster were a lifeless toy. “I’ll take care of Freddy from now on. I won’t let you mistreat him, dummy.” I slammed my bedroom door hard enough to be heard by everyone in the house. Freddy was not my first pet. Before him, I had a nice rabbit named Alice. We let her live with her own species in a city park after six months of living with us. She was chewing everything, and we couldn’t afford to fix the damage. Before Alice, we had a miniature turtle. He was small and cute—perfectly pocket-sized. We decided to do him a favor and release him back into the wild. A nice, still pond was the plan. But my dumb 12-year-old brother chucked him straight into a fast-moving river. “Whyyy?” I screamed. My brother just stared at the churning water, looking confused. “Don’t turtles live in water? I saw it in a documentary.” “They’re big turtles. Big!” I could already picture our tiny turtle being swept away forever. “Our turtle WAS miniature. YOU killed Lucky.” One night at around two in the morning, I felt a tiny hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw Freddy standing right behind me. “Hey! You forgot to feed me tonight? Are you going to punish me for making noise at night? Or is it because your girl dumped you?” “Freddy? Are you speaking? Why is your voice so loud for a small figure like you?” Freddy turned red and shouted at me, “Are ya going to feed me, or should I cook something myself?” “Can you also cook?” I asked, ready to believe everything. “Of course I can’t. But I’m sure I could if I wanted to. I’m way smarter than you, halfwit!” He spoke rudely, staring right into my eyes. I wasn’t sure if this was a dream or what, but to be honest, I was enjoying it. A talking, unruly hamster is certainly a necessity in everyone’s home. “What would you like to eat, Freddy?” I asked, unwilling to leave my bed. “Let’s start with nuts first. I also want my scrambled egg ready in half an hour.” “Or?” I asked, raising my eyebrow. “Or you’ll face the consequences.” “Freddy, don’t threaten me! I’m way older than you.” “You’re just a dummy! Now get your small ass moving. I want some nuts right now, right here. Can you understand English, or do you want me to say it in Spanish and German, too?” I felt both shocked and impressed. Shocked because my cute Freddy had turned into a scary thug, and impressed because he could speak three languages. I once tried to learn German but gave up after two months. I gave Freddy some nuts, scrambled egg, and sunflower seeds that night. Freddy let me go back to sleep at 5:30 after giving me a long lecture on the importance of feeding pets moderately and frequently. I listened very carefully because I didn’t want to piss him off. Freddy was only ten centimeters tall but had a dominant, strong-willed character. I couldn’t say no to him. Every night, he kept me awake ordering different stuff to eat and drink. Sometimes I would sit and eat something with him. Fruits and nuts were our favorites. With Freddy’s help and determination, I learned to speak Spanish fluently in eight months. Freddy was indeed a very good teacher, but sometimes he would smack me hard to make sure I took my lessons seriously. On New Year’s Eve, Freddy let me know he’d decided to make his biggest dream come true—visiting some Asian countries. I really didn’t want him to go, but he wasn’t my captive. Unfortunately, we cannot lock our loved ones in a cage. Uh, Freddy, I miss you! It’s been a year since you left us to see the world. Freddy has sent postcards from China, South Korea, Japan, and Thailand. He writes to me about his adventures and the girls he’s met in recent months. Two days ago, in an email, he mentioned that he might decide to stay in Southeast Asia for good. And I wrote back that I just want him to be happy wherever he is. Now that Freddy is not home, I feel lonely and isolated once again. Sometimes I miss him so much that I stay up the entire night eating Freddy’s favorite snacks. I wish him all the best and a very long, healthy life.

Same Kandej

(The images are of Fang (the brown fellow) and Rags, circa 1972, plotting as always. They were lovely boys who were together for seventeen years; I am sure they would have approved of Freddy the Syrian Hamster–Leila)

The Burial of Angel by Sam Kandej

(We are pleased to run the work of Sam Kandej or Iran for today and tomorrow. He is a special person indeed–the Eds.)

The Burial of Angel by Sam Kandej I’ll never forget June 3, 2026–the day Angel’s body was found on the main road. Apparently, she was hit by a car or something, but there were no witnesses. By noon, word had spread, and everyone in the village knew that our beloved three-month-old kitten was no longer among us. “I can’t believe it. Angel was playing in front of my shop around ten. She was so happy, chasing butterflies here and there. I can’t believe her gorgeous brown eyes are closed forever,” Mr. Thomson told me when I asked him whether we should dump the poor thing or do something more respectful. “Normally, they dump dead cats, but Angel wasn’t just any cat. She became everyone’s sweetheart in a very short time. I don’t feel good about dumping her. How about burying her somewhere near the woods?” Mr. Thomson suggested. I immediately agreed and left the shop to let anyone who might have been interested know about the burial that afternoon. Almost all the elderly villagers said yes, perhaps because they had nothing else to do or perhaps because they themselves were getting close to death. Natasha, a seven-year-old girl who had played with Angel several times, showed up with her mother, too. In total, including me, there were thirteen people standing silently around our lifeless Angel. “We should say something, shouldn’t we?” Natasha said to her mom. “What, dear? What should we say?” “Something nice. I saw that in Harry Potter. When Aragog died, Professor Slughorn said something that I don’t remember now.” Natasha’s mom looked around, and her eyes met mine. Without a word, she indicated that it was my responsibility to say something. Something nice? I looked at the sky first. It was starting to drizzle. I remembered the day I lost my five-year-old daughter and my lovely spouse in that damn accident. The image of my little Summer laughing while chasing butterflies made my heart ache. “I do believe in God and life after death for humans. I’m a religious man. You all know that. But I don’t believe animals will have an afterlife. For them, this world is all there is,” I started my eulogy. “You know, I believe God created us to torture us. It seems that He enjoys it. Why should an innocent…” “What the hell are you talking about? Have you lost your mind?” Mrs. Smith, an eighty-four-year-old woman whom everyone called Aunt Smith, shouted at me. I felt raindrops on my hand and then on my nose. It was getting colder, and I was shivering slightly. “Where was God when my Summer perished? Where was God when this poor kitten was hit by an irresponsible driver? Where is God when a child dies of cancer?” I looked around. Everyone’s mouths were open in shock, especially Natasha’s mom. Only Mr. Walker was nodding in agreement since he was an atheist. “Listen, we all know you have suffered, but…” Mrs. Smith tried to calm me. “But what? Am I insulting God? Am I a jerk now? Just tell me, please. Why does life have to be this hard? Why does it have to be this heartbreaking?” I could no longer stop it. My eyes filled with tears, and the harder I tried to hold them back, the less possible it seemed. The rain helped wash them away, but I couldn’t hide them. I felt ashamed of myself, knowing that Natasha was standing there, watching me fall apart. “Let’s bury the cat,” Mr. Thomson urged everyone to wrap up the funeral. “Let me do it. Please. For God’s sake.” I was crying as I walked toward Angel. I hugged her. Kissed her once, twice, three times. Hugged her tightly for a minute or two. I hadn’t been brave enough to go to my own daughter’s funeral. I stayed at home, unable to face the darkness. I put Angel in her small grave, patted her gently, and said goodbye.

Sam Kandej