There is something gnawing away at the heart of summer - it's the pressure to mind other people's pets.
I DON'T CARE whether it's the summer of love, I'm not minding the hamster. There are limits to what can be asked of the most sincere well-wisher. As Dublin has emptied over the last few weeks, the air has filled with the animal cries of those left holding the pets. I know a rabbit called Jeffrey (don't ask) who is temporarily gambolling on the balcony of a luxurious city apartment. Jeffrey has been gambolling there for a couple of weeks now. The TV cable has already been gnawed through.
Despite all this, Jeffrey's hosts are becoming rather fond of him, even though he has abandoned his litter tray in favour of their pristine parquet flooring.
But I'm not minding the hamster, and that's all there is to it. For a start, his owner does not even pretend that he has a name - a very bad sign. Some adults have suggested the hamster might be called Shawshank, because he has devoted his life to trying to escape. He has a poster of Rita Hayworth on his wall. He looks like a wronged accountant. He keeps muttering about how he is getting busy living, as opposed to getting busy dying. And then there is the fact he hangs from the bars on the ceiling of his cage and performs chin-ups. He has bitten right through one bar, which has undergone tenuous repair. He regards all humans, quite understandably, as prison officials and, consequently, he bites the hands that feed him, water him and attempt to change his bedding.
We summer pet minders are victims of the most vicious blackmail. It is implied that finding temporary accommodation for a sinister array of domestic pets is absolutely vital to the happiness of their child owners. The fact of the matter is that children are chillingly pragmatic about their pets.
Children don't give a curse about their pets. No sooner does a dog go missing, no sooner is the cat flattened by a passing jeep, than the children are planning what type of dog or cat they will get next. And this rather ruthless discussion is carried on as the children's mother and father are wiping the tears from their eyes and pouring themselves a couple of swift ones in order to cope with their loss.
In my ever-expanding experience of minding domestic pets, it is the mummies who set off for the airport for their holiday with a snivel, whereas the children march off without a backward glance. Back when we minded the guinea pigs, one of the devoted owners (6) parted from her loved one with these heartbreaking words: "Her name is Princess. But I'm a bit tired of the name Princess so I think I'm going to call her, um, see ya."
The ensuing three weeks brought some of us a lovely holiday in the United States. And some of us 21 days of living with guinea pigs on terms of the most revolting intimacy.
This year, the guinea pigs are staying with their grandparents, as it were. It is not a very happy arrangement. The guinea pigs' outdoor cage, when examined each morning, bears the teeth marks of a predatory fox. The guinea pigs are losing their hair, what with the stress and everything. The grandparents, meanwhile, are dealing with the fish and with a beagle who has educational issues and bladder problems. The status of the grandparents' hair is unknown. Summer is the toughest season for grandparents. If you're not lumbered with the pets, you're lumbered with the kids.
But no matter how sorry we feel for grandparents, we are not minding the hamster. One year we minded the dog - not the beagle, another dog. (A note to single females: when you meet a cute guy in a bar, do not ask him what he does for a living. Do not ask him whether he is married. Ask him whether he comes from a family of animal-lovers. If he replies in the affirmative, grab your handbag and head for some rabbit-free hills.)
Looking after the dog went quite well, except that the dog was bored out of her mind. She felt it was a bit of a come-down from a busy house and a street filled with adventurous children and lots of other dogs with whom one could perform acts of gross indecency to watching a solitary adult bashing away at a computer for a whole day of monotony unrelieved by nothing more dramatic than a phone call.
The grandparents won't take the hamster. They say that they find it (all right, him) too disturbing. They are animal-lovers, after all. They don't really see the logic of keeping a poor creature locked in a cage. Most grandparents do not have pets - they're done with that type of responsibility.
But we're not minding the hamster, and that's all there is to it. " As Dublin has emptied over the last few weeks, the air has filled with the animal cries of those left holding the pets