Hamstersaurus Rex vs. Squirrel Kong

by Tom O'Donnell

  “Not a problem, Principal,” said Mr. Copeland. “What’s up?”

  “Unfortunately,” said Principal Truitt, “I’m going to need to take your class hamster away for . . . evaluation.”

  Mr. Grogan cautiously crept toward the cage. He was acting like it held a cobra or a great white shark instead of a hamster. Hamstersaurus Rex growled again, confused and upset. Mr. Grogan jumped back in terror.

  “Evaluation?” I said. “What exactly does evaluation mean?”

  “It means that I need to evaluate whether Hamstersaurus Rex poses a threat to the students of this school, Mr. Gibbs,” said Principal Truitt. “And if he does, then he no longer has a place at Horace Hotwater.”

  Inside his cage, Hammie whined pitifully and pressed his face against the bars. Mr. Grogan hefted the PETCATRAZ Pro™ and disappeared down the hallway.

  “Forgive the interruption. Please, carry on,” said Principal Truitt as she closed the door behind her.

  Now it was me who tried not to cry.

  CHAPTER 5

  IT WAS A bleak day. Whenever there was a moment between classes, I tried to talk to Martha about Hamstersaurus Rex. Each time, she changed the subject or avoided me. At lunch I managed to corner her and bring it up again.

  “No, Sam. I currently have no plans to un-resign as Hamster Monitor,” she said with a strained grin. “I’m honestly looking forward to spending more time with my other extracurricular activities. On top of my current load, I’m taking up debate and modern dance and competitive origami, and I just landed a very prestigious internship at the Antique Doll Museum.”

  “But Hammie didn’t do it! He didn’t wreck the lab. It was a giant mutant squirrel beast called Squirrel Kong,” I said. “Well, I call it Squirrel Kong. I don’t know what name is on its birth certificate or whatever.”

  “Squirrels don’t have birth certificates,” said Martha, capping her hands over her ears. “And this all sounds like official Hamster Monitor business that a mere civilian like me doesn’t need to know about.” With that, she disappeared to go sit alone at an empty table.

  I sighed. Dylan put her tray down on the table beside me.

  “Sorry, Sam,” said Dylan. “Man, did you ever think that you’d actually want Martha Cherie to keep on Hamster Monitoring?”

  “No,” I said. “But these days Hammie needs all the help he can get. The other kids are acting like he’s an ax murderer or something.”

  “Well, you know I’ve always got the little guy’s back,” said Dylan. “We’ll figure out what happened to the science lab and clear his good name.”

  “What do you mean figure it out?” I snapped. “We already know it was Squirrel Kong!”

  “Right. Exactly,” said Dylan, taken aback. “That’s what I meant.”

  The rest of the day passed in much the same way. I took a basketball to the face in gym class, I apparently forgot to do the geometry homework, and I accidentally sat in taffy. My mom made cauliflower and beets for dinner, which didn’t improve things much. All I could think about was Hammie Rex, alone and afraid, getting “evaluated.” That night I dreamed about more monster squirrels.

  When I woke up the next day, I knew what I had to do. As soon as I got to school I headed straight to the principal’s office. In the waiting area, I sat across from a strange man with a ponytail who was wearing sunglasses indoors. When he saw me staring, he gave me a double thumbs-up. Weird.

  “Sam, the principal will see you now,” said Truitt’s secretary.

  Principal Truitt’s office was cold and spare. On a shelf behind her imposing wooden desk I saw the PETCATRAZ Pro™. Inside it, Hammie Rex looked pitiful and deflated. She probably wasn’t feeding him enough. The little guy needed at least eight square meals a day to stay chipper. Hammie Rex perked up as he saw me enter the room. I gave him a quick double wink.

  “Good morning, Mr. Gibbs,” said Principal Truitt. “I must say, not many students send themselves to the principal’s office. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  I took a deep breath. “Principal Truitt, I have a confession to make.”

  “Aha! So it’s you who’s been stealing all the mustard packets from the cafeteria?” said Principal Truitt, leaping to her feet.

  “What? No,” I said. “It’s about Hamstersaurus Rex.”

  “Oh,” said Principal Truitt. She sat back down.

  “You see, there’s a reason he wasn’t in his cage the other night when the science lab got wrecked.”

  “Go on,” said Principal Truitt.

  “It’s because I took him home with me. I know I’m not supposed to do that, but I did. Hamstersaurus Rex couldn’t have wrecked the lab because he was with me all night. So give me detention or suspend me or whatever, but please don’t blame Hamstersaurus Rex for what happened.”

  Principal Truitt nodded. “I think I see what’s going on here, Mr. Gibbs.”

  “You do?”

  She nodded. “You love this hamster so much that you think you can make up an alibi for him. It’s very common for students to try to protect their friends when they get into trouble. I’ve seen it a hundred times before.”

  “But I’m not making anything up!” I cried. “A mysterious mega-squirrel who secretly lives in the woods behind the school wrecked the lab!”

  Principal Truitt squinted at me. “Sam, please. No more lies,” she said. She swiveled in her chair and squinted at the little guy. “Over the last twenty-four hours, my observations of Hamstersaurus Rex have confirmed my worst fears. I have found this creature to be impulsive, aggressive, and alarmingly strong.”

  “I know,” I said. “That’s what makes him so cool.”

  “Around the presence of food, especially, he loses all control,” she said.

  Principal Truitt slid open her left desk drawer. I saw that it was filled with bags of Funchos Spicy Wasabi and French Onion Flavor-Wedges. She grabbed a bag and held it up.

  “Observe,” she said as she ripped it open. Sure enough, Hammie Rex snarled and started kicking the bars of his cage, drool oozing from his mouth.

  Principal Truitt deliberately folded the bag closed and replaced it in the drawer.

  “Okay, yes, impulse control is something he needs to work on. He doesn’t get that Flavor-Wedges are a ‘sometimes food.’”

  “Regardless,” said Principal Truitt. “I’ve come to the conclusion that Hamstersaurus Rex poses a significant danger to our school. And I’m not merely basing it on his junk food aggression, nor the rampant destruction I witnessed at Science Night.”

  “That wasn’t his fault! Beefer tried to feed him to his dumb snake.”

  “New evidence has come to light, Mr. Gibbs, that makes me certain that Hamstersaurus Rex is guilty of destroying the lab.”

  “New evidence? What new evidence?”

  Principal Truitt took a deep breath. “Sam, I’m warning you: the footage you’re about to see is disturbing. It shows a very dark and twisted side of Hamstersaurus Rex’s character. You may never think of him as your cuddly little friend again.”

  She dimmed the lights and turned the screen of her laptop to face me. A shaky digital video started to play. Sure enough, it was footage of Hamstersaurus Rex, but from the angle it was shot, he looked huge and intimidating. Monstrous, even. He snarled and stomped around with a psychotic glint in his eye. Suddenly, he picked up a station wagon and hurled it the ground, causing it to burst into a cloud of metal shrapnel. Then he smashed right through three buildings to find a group of soldiers cowering behind their army jeep. With an evil snarl, he bit the head off their commander (the one with binoculars) while his men looked on in mute horror. I was watching Chinchillazilla vs. MechaChinchillazilla.

  “Sickening,” said Principal Truitt under her breath.

  “It’s not sickening, it’s just a movie I made!” I said.

  “Enough, Mr. Gibbs. You can’t protect Hamstersaurus Rex anymore.”

  Onscreen, Hammie Rex was kicking down a cardboard building marked “Lab
oratory.” I’ll admit, it didn’t look good.

  “See?” said Principal Truitt. “He clearly hates science.”

  “But he’s acting!” I said. “That’s the lab where MechaChinchillazilla was—look, I can show you the script—I mean, the script has changed a lot since we shot this, so this scene’s not in there anymore, but still—this must have come from a digital memory card that somebody found, right?”

  Principal Truitt paused. “Mr. Grogan did find a memory card in the woods behind the school, but that’s not the point. The point is that if Hamstersaurus Rex is capable of this . . . then he’s obviously capable of destroying our lab, too. I worry what else he’s capable of.”

  “Come on! He’s not capable of anything weird except walking on his back legs and occasionally eating his body weight in Funchos and—”

  “Enough, Mr. Gibbs!” said Principal Truitt.

  From his cage, Hammie Rex let out an earsplitting roar. Principal Truitt spun in her seat, terrified. The little guy was baring his pointed teeth at her. His tail was whipping back and forth. He could sense that I was upset and he wanted to help me. Unfortunately, it was the worst possible time for an outburst.

  “Easy, Hammie,” I said in a soothing tone. “It’s okay, boy. Calm down.”

  “This is exactly what terrifies me, Mr. Gibbs,” said Principal Truitt as she smoothed her jacket and regained her composure. Then she reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a glossy brochure. On it was a picture of an ominous-looking farmhouse surrounded by a barbed-wire fence.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve made up my mind,” she said.

  “There’s a special center in Indiana. It’s called the Irma Bergstrom Memorial Home for Troubled Small Pets. Their highly trained staff can provide proper care for hamsters who have shown violent or dangerous behavior. I called them and luckily they have a spot opening up soon.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “They’re willing to take Hamstersaurus Rex. At the Home he can be safely isolated so he doesn’t hurt anyone ever again.”

  “What do you mean again? He didn’t hurt anyone in the first place!” I cried. “He’s innocent! You can’t just send him away!”

  “I can and I will. Mr. Gibbs, I refuse to put the students of this school in jeopardy, regardless of your misplaced affection for an unruly class pet. Our insurance doesn’t cover rogue hamster attacks! What if there had been someone inside that lab when Hamstersaurus Rex destroyed it?”

  Hamstersaurus Rex snarled again.

  “What if there weren’t titanium bars between that hamster and me right now?” said Principal Truitt.

  The first bell rang.

  “It’s time for you to go to class, Mr. Gibbs. In time I think you’ll see the wisdom of my decision.”

  I stood and walked toward the door, so upset I could barely think. I paused.

  “When are you sending him to that hamster jail?” I asked.

  Principal Truitt frowned. “In seven days.”

  I nodded and left. So that was that: I had one week to prove that Squirrel Kong was real and save Hamstersaurus Rex.

  CHAPTER 6

  “SAM, LOOK,” WHISPERED Dylan, pointing to a dark shape in the woods behind Horace Hotwater. “Is that Squirrel Kong?”

  I squinted. “No, that’s a tree.”

  We’d already spent two weekday afternoons and most of Saturday and Sunday searching the area. So far, we hadn’t seen any squirrels that were even slightly above average size.

  “Hmm. Okay,” said Dylan, “is that Squirrel Kong?”

  “Nope. That’s a different tree.”

  “Okay . . . is that Squirrel Kong?”

  “No,” I said. “That’s the first tree you asked about!”

  Dylan frowned.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Thanks for doing this with me. I know it’s boring to search the same woods every day and I really appreciate your help. I’m just frustrated. Seriously, where does a twelve-foot-tall squirrel hide?”

  I checked my UltraLite SmartShot for the hundredth time. The new memory card was in place, ready to capture hard video evidence if Squirrel Kong ever made another appearance. Dylan glanced at her watch.

  “Sam, I’ve really got to take off. Practice is starting in five minutes. The Discwhippers have got a ton of work to do before the exhibition tournament. Dwight’s high-release backhand isn’t where it needs to be, and honestly I’m a little worried Coach Weekes doesn’t actually know how the scoring works.”

  “Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Coach Weekes,” I said. “Something has been puzzling me about that guy.”

  “Oh. His new earring is called an ‘ankh.’ It’s the ancient Egyptian symbol for life.”

  “Not that. It’s about Squirrel Kong.”

  “Go on.”

  “So a twelve-foot-tall squirrel obviously must be some kind of mutation, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “And the only other mutant rodent I know got mutated when he ate something from Coach Weekes’s office. It was a SmilesCorp product, some kind of weight-lifting powder called Dinoblast Powerpacker.”

  “Sure, I remember. ‘It gives you prehistoric strength,’ right?”

  “Yep. Hammie gobbled that junk and it made him go all half-dinosaur. What if another one of Weekes’s weird dietary supplements is what created Squirrel Kong? Like maybe a normal squirrel ate something and then grew to the size of two refrigerators.”

  “So you want to poke around his office and try to find out?” said Dylan. “I don’t know, Sam. I’m not sure Coach Weekes is even into all those powders and shakes anymore. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still really, really weird. Just not in quite the same way. After he confessed to cheating at the ’83 Little Mister Muscles, he’s gotten way more . . . organic.”

  “It’s just a hunch,” I said. “But I’ve got only one day left before Principal Truitt sends Hammie away for good. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Tomorrow, during gym class, how about a little distraction?”

  Dylan grinned. “You got it,” she said. “In fact, you can consider it my audition to be in your next movie.”

  “Awesome! You’re the best,” I said. “Seriously, Hammie Rex and I owe you big-time. Whatever you want, just name—”

  “I need you to get to the disc golf exhibition tournament early,” she said. “We just found out that SmilesCorp is sending somebody super important to the event, their CEO, Nils Winroth. Those stands need to be full for his opening remarks.”

  “I’ll be there, cheering your name,” I said.

  “Also, I need you to paint your face in Discwhipper colors: maroon and mauve.”

  “Uh. Okay, fine. Those are both kind of purple right?”

  “No way!” said Dylan. “Purple is the West Blunkton Flingmasters color. Do not wear purple face paint!”

  “Okay, okay, I get it,” I said, even though I didn’t.

  Dylan gave me a nod and then trudged off toward the athletic fields.

  I kept on searching for Squirrel Kong until it was nearly dark. I found nothing. That night I combed the internet (yet again) for any reputable news stories about giant squirrels in Maple Bluffs or the surrounding areas. Nothing. As always, the only result that turned up was on a crackpot message board called truthblasters.com. Someone claimed to have seen a “mysterious creature” stalking through the weeds behind their house and somehow this proved that the moon landing was faked and the president was actually a super-intelligent dolphin. Even if true, it wasn’t very helpful.

  True to her word, in gym class the next day Dylan faked a spectacular knee injury during badminton.

  “Oweeeeee!” Dylan screamed, rolling around on the floor and dramatically clutching her leg. “I took a birdie to the patella!”

  Coach Weekes emitted a high-pitched shriek and rushed to Dylan’s side. “D’Amato? What’s wrong?” He turned to Drew McCoy, her unlucky badm
inton opponent. “What did you do to her, you monster?”

  “I dunno,” mumbled Drew. “Didn’t even look like it hit her—”

  “Oweeeeeee!” wailed Dylan. “Big ouches!”

  “D’Amato?” said Coach Weekes, clutching Dylan’s hand as the rest of the class crowded around. “D’Amato, can you hear me?”

  “. . . Mom? Is that you?” said Dylan. “Mommy, am I ever going to play disc golf again?”

  “Don’t you worry about that, D’Amato,” said Coach Weekes, his voice cracking. “You’re going to come back from this, kid. You’re going to be better than ever. Your chi is strong. You hear me? Your chi is strong!”

  “I feel cold,” whispered Dylan, now staring blankly at the ceiling. “So . . . cold.”

  “Doctor!” cried Coach Weekes. “We need a doctor! Is anyone here a doctor?”

  The rest of the class looked at one another, confused.

  “Um, Coach,” said Julie Bailey, “we’re all twelve years old.”

  “You know what?” I said. “It looks to me like Dylan might need some bandages.”

  “Actually,” said Martha, “there aren’t any cuts or bruises, so—”

  “Bandages!” I said, cutting Martha off. “Coach, you got any bandages in your office?”

  Coach Weekes squinted at me. “Smart thinking, Gibbs,” he said. “Don’t just stand there, go and get me those bandages! Bottom right desk drawer! Don’t touch any of my mandalas!”

  I had maybe a minute, maybe two tops. I dashed to Coach Weekes’s office and closed the door behind me. I was shocked at what I saw inside.

  Weekes had completely redecorated the place. Gone were the dusty old trophies and 1980s weight-lifting posters. Now the room was filled with geodes and woven blankets and dream catchers. Instead of Weekes’s rusty dumbbells that had sat in the corner as long as I could remember, there was a yoga mat and a set of bongos. Weirdest of all, his office no longer smelled like weight gainer and feet. Now it smelled kind of like incense and feet.