Hunger, not hunter cages pet hamster

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When I began hunting a few short years ago, I paid close attention to the more expert hunters I met, learned as much about animal behavior I could, and knew, deep down, that the more knowledge I amassed, the more likely I was to be able to put it to use when I really needed it.

Last week, I needed it. Last week, I matched wits with Ted.

There’s something you ought to know about Ted. He isn’t a deer or a bear or a bird. He isn’t even on the list of critters we Maine hunters (or trappers) even care about.

But Ted is wily. He is shrewd. He is (I learned) a foe worthy of respect.

Ted is … um … a teddy bear hamster.

My troubles began late one night, when Ted pulled his water bottle into the cage, hopped out through the hole, and successfully staged a jailbreak the boys at Alcatraz would have appreciated.

Ted E. Bamster was on the lam.

That’s where I come in.

As a licensed rifle-toting, blaze-orange-wearing outdoorsman, the other members of my household appointed me Head Hamster Hunter, and told me I had to, somehow, some way, get Ted back.

I laughed. No sweat, I thought. I can do it, I thought. In an hour, I thought.

Or not.

The problem, I quickly found out, was Ted had turned completely nocturnal (just like that big buck you tried to bag all last November). And during daylight hours, he refused to come back to the food we were offering.

I crawled around in the bedrooms of 11-year-old Sarah and 9-year-old Molly, looking for clues. I picked up blankets, and disrupted monstrous piles of stuffed animals, searching for evidence of Ted’s presence.

No luck.

Then I gave Pudge, our bird-dog-in-training, a crash course on hamster odor, and let him have a go.

Pudge crawled under blankets, disrupted monstrous piles of stuffed animals, then looked at me and (I think) shrugged his furry shoulders.

Then it was on to Plan C.

I talked to co-workers and friends. They all had ideas … and each of them thought my own extra-special, gotta-work solution made absolutely no sense.

Actually, I had two ideas.

One: Strap a tree stand to the wall and wait for the little varmint to return.

Two: Spread a thin layer of flour on the floor around our bait, then track him back to his ultra-secret lair.

A co-worker who had suffered through hamster jailbreaks of her own as a child suggested a large pot full of food, with a ramp leading to the edge of the abyss.

If Ted gets hungry enough, she said, he’ll jump in … and he won’t be able to get back out.

Intrigued, I set up my own version of the trap, with a large cooler taking the place of the metal pot.

(I told you this story was about trapping).

Unfortunately for me (and fortunately for Ted), Sarah and Molly began feeling sorry for their potentially starving hamster and put down a bowl of food … right next to my trap.

“He was hungry. And angry,” I was told. “He kicked shavings all over the place, and even spilled his water bowl to let us know he was mad.”

“But we had him where we wanted him,” I said, trying to avoid admitting that the mess the girls had found resulted when I inadvertently tripped over the assorted hamster gear spread over the bathroom floor. “He was hungry. He was trappable. And now he’s full, fat and happy … somewhere.”

The fact, I later learned, was nobody in my house (except for me) had any faith in my Cooler-Full-Of-Chow trap, and everyone (except for me) seemed to think Ted might be on the lam for a long, long time, and shouldn’t be forced to forage for his food.

Beginning to boil, I launched Plan D … or was it E? I bought a live trap at a local feed store, slathered peanut butter on the tripping mechanism, threw a few peanuts on top (Ted is a nut for nuts) and put it next to my own cooler trap.

The next morning, I sneakily strode up the stairs to find the new, store-bought trap had been visited.

Unfortunately, the trapper hadn’t set it up right, and only one door closed when Ted came in for a snack.

The result: Ted got two peanuts, then bolted out the open end.

On to Plan F: Reset the store-bought trap, then sweeten the bait in my cooler trap with an enormous pile of sunflower seeds.

Ted is, I may not have mentioned, also quite a seed eater.

Finally, early Sunday morning, I had some honest-to-goodness success, the kind of success that grants the trapper bragging rights for months (or maybe years … I’ll let you know).

Ted’s freedom was over.

His hunger got the best of him.

And there, knee deep in sunflower seeds at the bottom of the Cooler-Full-Of-Chow, was Ted E. Bamster.

Off the lam. Finally. For now.

Last night, as I sat up reading just before bedtime, I heard an urgent scraping, rattling noise.

I glanced at Ted’s cage and saw that he was standing on his sleeping cube, pushing frantically at the roof of the cage. I chuckled … briefly. Then I began to think.

He can’t push the cover off that cage … can he? I wondered.

Probably not, I allowed. But maybe.

And before turning in, I dropped one of Stephen King’s more hefty volumes on top of Ted’s abode … just to make sure.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.