Bad Lindy's bad hamster day

Bad Lindy rings me, sounding agitated. "I need help," she says. "We've lost a hamster."

"What do you want me to do?" I ask, surprised. Care and compassion may feature large on her job description, but Bad Lindy certainly didn't take her part-time job at the vet so she could transmit healing vibes to small rodents.

As a woman whose specialist interest is other people's husbands, Bad Lindy's main motivation is the short, white nurse's outfit she gets to wear and the opportunity to say caring things in a low voice to male pet owners while resting both breasts on the counter. If the men are moderately good-looking into the bargain, it takes only a diagnosis of an anal gland blockage - theirs or their pets - for Bad Lindy to be immediately on hand, ready and willing to soften the bad news with the offer of a nice cup of tea and an emergency lie down in her lap.

This time, unfortunately, the customer isn't a man. "This hamster died on us today," says Bad Lindy. "So we ring the owner, who's this woman, and I break the news. She takes it really well. And it's only a hamster, after all, so -"

It turns out that the owner has just called back, wanting to do the decent thing and bury the creature in the garden. Which would have been fine except that, without thinking twice, Bad Lindy has picked the hamster up by the ear and slung him in the bin. Several rubbish bags down the line, she hasn't a clue which one he's in.

"Can't you just get another hamster and swap them, instead?"

"What, go out and buy up all the local stock and then kill them off till I find one that matches? I don't think so."

She has a point. Adding 'Psycho hamster killer,' to her already tarnished reputation is probably not a good career move.

"I didn't think you were allowed to put hamsters in with the rubbish. Aren't they hazardous material, or something?"

"Well, it's not going to bloody well bite anyone now, is it?" she says, indignantly. I give up.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask, resignedly.

"Help me find the thing, of course," she says. "I can't tell my boss I've lost it. I've been in his bad books ever since the police turned up in the surgery and virtually accused me of being behind the tortoise heist down the road - and this would be the final straw. Look, we're shut, now, and he's gone home. Please come over."

I do, though reluctantly.

Half an hour and three unpleasant bags of rubbish later, we discover the hamster, yellow teeth portruding pathetically from a pile of paper. "His last nest," says Bad Lindy, portentiously, as she pulls him out. "Oh, God," she adds, a second later, "He's got felt tip all over him. Must have been the pen without a lid I chucked out at the same time. What are we going to do?"

A further half hour later, the hamster has been washed, soaped, and blow dried - though not, obviously, to within an inch of its life. Later, Bad Lindy hands the little blighter over, the owner looks closely at him. "What are those funny black marks on his fur?", she asks. Bad Lindy shrugs. "P'raps he was into tattoos?" I hear her mutter, under her breath.