When I was little my grandmother decided that giving me and my brother each a male hamster would be a good idea. They seem innocent enough until you decide to put two of them together, which results in a transformation similar to feeding a Mogwai after midnight. My hamster (Harry, creatively named for its long haired appearance) would constantly attack my brother's (Jerry, the beta-male); half of Jerry's life was spent getting its wounds swabbed by a Q-tip of Neosporin while the other half was spent quivering in the corner of it's cage probably contemplating whether a leap from the highest tube would be enough to end its fear. Eventually, the girl across the street also got a male hamster and we decided we should let our hamsters be "friends." Being 7ish at the time, we met up outside and put our hamsters into a bucket that we found so they wouldn't run away. Watching a hamster being put into a bucket with another hamster is pretty similar to watching Transformers 2, sans explosions. Seeing two balls of hair rolling around in a death struggle compelled me to stick my hand into the bucket to break up the fight, resulting in my own beloved hamster, Harry, clamping down onto my finger. Panicking, I did what any 7 year old would do in that situation--flailed my hand around like crazy. Unable to hold on, it was flung about 6-7 feet directly into a brick wall, and then fell perfectly into one of my mom's watering cans, COMPLETELY UNPHASED. It became a running joke that the hamster was unkillable after it outlived Jerry by over a year, even after sustaining that kind of trauma.