Hampster, I look forward to the day that I casually walk past your cage and you are dead. I would never kill you outright; neither will I suffer when you inevitably, irrevocably pass away from neglect. To be sure, we have provided life's necessities to you: food, water, a clean cage. I don't hate you--what do you think I am, some kind of monster? No, but I don't love you either. No one really loves you and that's your fault. Here are all the things you have failed to do when we brought you home and entered into the two-way promise of pet ownership:
Endear yourself to us in any way
Show any signs of sentience
Have any redeeming qualities whatsoever
What gives, Hampster? I refuse to get into some co-dependent hate/hate relationship with you. Your self-defeating behavior sickens me. You have no sense of delayed gratification or appreciation for normal bio-rhythms--stuffing your face with all your food immediately and running incessantly on your tread mill in the middle of the night. If you could purge after you binge, would you? Stop right there--I can't do this with you.
Sometimes I imagine simply flicking you out into my backyard to be swooped up by a passing bird of prey. But frankly, to die in the noble clutches of a soaring hawk is too good for you. This is how I really feel.