Let me tell you about a pet named Atlas. Atlas was a hamster that Chad and I adopted when we were a couple of poor married college students, living in a tiny apartment. We already had a cat, the very same cat we still have today, in fact — Sprite. And we rescued Atlas from a college student who attempted to raise a pet in the dorms, even though it was completely against the rules. She was caught (it’s awfully hard to hide a gigantic glass tank with a hamster in it, when you live in an itty-bitty dorm room with three other girls) and it just so happened that one of her roommates was a friend of mine. Before we knew it, we were Atlas’s adoptive parents.

I’m sure Atlas had a different name when we got him, but I have no idea what it was. All I know is that within 48 hours or so of living in our apartment, he had performed a very impressive trick for us: He wedged a ton of cedar bedding under his hamster exercise wheel so it could no longer spin; then he climbed on top of the wheel and attempted to lift the lid off his tank. We were amazed that such a tiny creature could bear the weight of that heavy lid and quickly named him Atlas.

For her part, Sprite was thrilled when we brought Atlas home. She spent hours — every waking hour, in fact — staring at the tank. I’m pretty sure she was attempting to use some form of telepathic mind control: You can do it, Atlas. You can escape from that glass tank. Come on out here and play with me. I’m a very nice kitty. It’ll be lots of fun. That little furry rodent was irresistible to her.

I don’t know if Atlas ever noticed her or not. I don’t think he had time to notice her, since he was so intent on his three primary life goals. They were:

1) To stuff his cheeks full of food as often as possible.
2) To spend hours each day running around the maze of tubes and toys that I bought to keep him entertained, being sure to leave little hamster poops in every corner.
3) To escape from The Evil Glass Cage and obtain the ultimate hamster fulfillment: FREEDOM.

Night after night, he’d wedge the cedar bedding under the wheel and climb on top. Night after night, he’d push and strain against the lid. But alas, the maze of tubes were weighing down the lid and he just couldn’t lift it high enough. Night after night, he’d give up and collapse in a cute but exhausted little ball in the corner of his cage.

All of this while the cat patiently watched. And waited.

At that time, Chad worked for UPS, and from October to December, he often had to get up at 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. in order to get to work, loading and unloading packages galore, all as part of the Christmas rush. I’m a light sleeper, so I always heard him get up and get ready, but then quickly fell back to sleep once he left.

But then one night, something weird happened. Chad got up and started getting ready. But this time, in addition to the normal noises of the shower running, I kept hearing: Thump. If it had happened once, I would have figured Chad just dropped something. But it continued. Every 5-10 seconds, another one would go: Thump.

Thump!

Thump!

Thump!

And since I’m the type of person who usually feels compelled to investigate nighttime noises, I got up to see what the heck was going on.

You’ve probably already guessed what had happened.

Yes, Atlas had finally achieved ultimate hamster fulfillment. But he quickly realized that Freedom wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Sprite the cat had watched and waited, and the moment that he managed to hold the lid of his cage up long enough to squirm over the edge of the glass, she was there, ready to pounce.

Lucky for him, she’s not too smart either.

He scampered. She pounced and missed. He scampered some more. She pounced and missed again.

The moment I realized what was happening, I turned on all the lights and tried to put an end to this middle-of-the-night fiasco.

It took a few minutes, but I cornered Atlas under the bed and snagged him out from under Sprite’s eager claw. Poor little guy — his heart was pounding and he was shaking all over. I cuddled him for a minute or two and then returned him to the safety of his cage. He happily waddled over to his little hamster water bottle, slurped at it for a while and then curled up to go to sleep.

Achieving freedom can be downright exhausting.

I’d like to tell you that he learned his lesson and never tried to escape again, but that would be a lie. (We do not have the gift of choosing intelligent pets.) Instead, I decided to put heavy text books on top of his cage lid from then on, as added insurance.

Sprite continued to watch him, day after day, night after night, hoping for another midnight rodent romp. But it never happened again.

Surprisingly, Atlas went on to live many years after that night of terror. So long, in fact, that we gave him to another family when we moved away from the area. That family did not have a stupid cat; they only had a lazy bloodhound who showed no interest in furry rodents.

I can be a lot like Atlas, and I suspect you might be able to relate. I might long to escape current circumstances, struggles, or challenges. I might come up with clever tricks to attempt my getaway. I might devote all my time and energy to figuring out how to achieve freedom. Freedom from…whatever I perceive as causing me grief at the moment.

But then, if/when I pull off an escape, the truth hits me: sometimes there’s even more misery, more trouble, on the other side of that glass cage that made me feel so trapped. This isn’t to say that we all shouldn’t attempt to pursue a dream every now and then. But it wouldn’t hurt to take a good hard look through the glass before we wedge more stuff under the wheel. After all, there just might be a cat patiently waiting on the other side.