Curl Up This One Dances A Little

My name is Valentine and I know this because that’s what my humans call me and my cage is positioned perfectly. It is high enough to see the living room and low enough to hear everything. Angled enough just so that the moonlight slides across the floor like an invitation.

The humans call me just a hamster. They say things like, “He probably sleeps all day.” “He’s so calm.” They are wrong. I sleep in shifts. I observe. I remember.

And every night, every single night after the last light clicks off and the house exhales into silence, the Nutcracker begins.

It starts with the cat.

Her name is Pearl and she pretends to be uninterested in everything. During the day she lounges as if gravity were optional. But precisely twenty minutes after the humans fall asleep, Pearl stretches long and deliberate and a little theatrical. Her tail flicks once and then twice. She hops down from the couch and walks to the center of the living room rug, the one with the faded snowflake and snowman pattern.

The rug is the stage.

Pearl lifts a paw and taps twice. That is the signal.

From the hallway comes the soft thump-thump of paws. The dogs, Scooby, Coco and Edward arrive. Scooby is a mutt who believes that enthusiasm is a personality. Coco is playful and affectionate. Edward has the soul of a warm blanket and something is convinced he is invisible especially when he is stepping on Mom’s toes during the day.

They line up clumsily at first. Edward always forgets where to stand and bumps into Scooby. Coco spins in a tight circle vibrating with excitement. They tilt their heads and wait for the excitement to begin.

Pearl sighs loudly. She is the director, whether she will admit it or not.

From the corner the bird starts to sing.

His name is Leopold and he lives in a brass cage near the window. The humans think that he only knows three songs. They are wrong again. Leopold knows the overture. He trills softly at first and then louder. His notes are crisp and precise. The music is not exact but it is close enough that the others understand.

That’s when the fish join in.

I can’t see them too well from my cage but I can hear the water change. The fish tank hums differently when they begin. Their fins catch the light and look like sequins. The bubbles rise in time with the music. If you listen closely the filter clicks like a metronome.

Last to arrive are the rabbits.

They come from the laundry room, hopping with solemn purpose. There are two of them. Clover and Ash. They bow to the stage before taking their places. Their ears are alert and their noses start twitching. They take ballet very seriously.

Once everyone is present Pearl nods.

And the nutcracker begins.

Pearl leaps first. She leaps high and gracefully. Effortless. She lands without a sound. Her paws are precise, tail curved just so. She is the Sugar Plum Fairy tonight, as she is most nights. Although she insists that she can play any part that she wants.

Coco and Edward lumber forward as soldiers, their movements are big and earnest. Scooby spins a little too fast and slides into the coffee table leg. He recovers wagging his tail so fast that it almost knocks over Edward who is darting around them like a mouse-shapped thought.

Leopold’s song grows brighter. The rabbit hops in rhythm. He is light and quick. Performing leaps that make my whiskers itch with admiration. Clover lands perfectly every time. Ash occasionally forgets the choreography and freezes mid-hop and pretends that it was intentional.

From my wheel I watch.

I always watch.

I run sometimes, slow and steady. My paws turning the wheel in quiet circles. The motion helps me think. It helps me remember.

Because someone has to remember.

The humans will never know that their living room transforms into a palace every night. They will never know that their cat bows or that the dogs attempt pirouettes, or that the fish perform a dance called Waltz of Currents. They will never know that the rabbits rehearse extra on Tuesdays and Fridays.

They will never know because they are asleep.

I don’t sleep at night.

As the music swells, Pearl executes a leap so perfect that the moonlight pauses to admire it. The dogs bark softly, a little too softly. Pearl warns them with a director’s glare. Scooby does a series of quick spins which make his ears flap like ribbons.

I clap.

Well, I clap as much as a hamster in a cage can. I press my paws together and squeak once, softly. They never hear it over the music but I do it anyway. It feels important.

Halfway through the dance something goes wrong.

It always does.

Tonight Edward trips over his own enthusiasm and skids across the rug, colliding gently with the fish tank. The water sloshes. The fish scatter in panic of the glittering tails. Leopold’s song falters.

Everyone freezes.

Pearl’s tail lashes.

I hold my breath.

The house creaks, a settling sound, the kind of sound that makes animals glance toward the hallway where the human’s bedrooms are. For a moment, it seems the night itself is listening.

Then Coco steps forward.

She nudges Scooby with her nose, slow and reassuring. Edward sits up, ears drooping. Coco licks his face once then twice. Scooby jumps on Edward’s back and barks silently as if to say, We’re still a part of this.

Pearl lifts her paw again.

Leopold resumes the song. He sang softer now and gentler.

The Nutcracker continues.

The final act is my favorite. The lights, moonlight,aquarium glow, the faint green numbers of the microwave clock all blend together. Shadows stretch and bend. The animals move not as individuals but as something shared. Something held together by the rhythm of the night and trust.

The rabbits bow. The fish slow their spirals in their tank. The dogs collapse in a happy heap on the floor. Pearl finishes with a final leap that is elegant. She turns and bows so deep that she nearly brushes the rug.

Silence follows.

Then applause.

It is messy applause. Thumping tails, fluttering wings, splashing water. It is always sincere.

One by one they return back to their places.

The rabbits hop back to the laundry room. The dogs curl up in their beds breathing heavy but content. Leopold fluffs his feathers and tucks his head beneath his wings. The fish settle into gentle drifts of swimming. Pearl jumps back onto the couch and becomes once again a decorative pillow with whiskers.

The stage is empty.

The house goes quiet.

I am alone with the memory.

I climb into my little nest and arrange my bedding just right. Before I go to sleep I look out once more at the rug, now it is only a rug again.

Sometimes I wonder why I am the only one who never joins.

I can dance. I think. I have some rhythm. I run every night. My wheels spin like a waltz. But I understand my role.

Every performance needs a witness.

Someone must notice details the way that Coco waits before lying down. The way Pearl’s ears tilt when she is proud. The way the fish always circle one more time than necessary just because they love it.

Someone must remember in case the one night the dance does not happen.

In case the music stops.

In case the humans wake up too early.

So I watch. I remember.

And when morning comes and the humans stumble into the living room yawning and stretching, I pretend to be asleep.

Because humans believe that night is quiet.

And sometimes it is kinder to let them.