Showing posts with label pets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pets. Show all posts

Sunday, December 6, 2015

Someday My Prince Will Come To - Or Not

When my daughter, Syd's beloved guinea pig died, we allowed for a proper time of mourning (three days). Then we brought home a baby Netherland dwarf rabbit. Syd named him Prince Charming. He was the umpty-umpth rabbit to hop into our hearts.

"Rabbit Sings the Blues" by Teece Aronin, on 
products in the phylliswalter store at
Why we were so optimistic about this rabbit's prospects, considering our luck with previous ones is unclear. The closest I can come to why we felt this way is that we didn't feel that way. I think what we really felt was a glimmer of hope and a lot of enthusiasm about sustaining a tiny life with the bonus that neither of us would have to get pregnant. 

The other rabbits had died. With the exception of one, that was snatched from Syd by a dog and killed, we never knew exactly what went wrong; some "syndrome" or another would strike and next thing we knew, our rabbit was gone, hopping up God's bunny trail.

So, now, here we stood, Syd and I, with Prince Charming.

We bought him from a breeder who kept him and a pile of other rabbits from a mishmash of litters all stashed together in a stuffy outbuilding. 

Gently, Syd picked him up. He didn't thrash around; he just gazed placidly back at her as if peering into Heaven, or something just short of Heaven since Syd didn't have carrots sticking from her ears.  

We stopped at the pet store on our way home to buy Prince Charming some supplies. Syd was holding him in her hands when a clerk revved up a noisy floor buffer and Prince Charming promptly fainted.

The clerk immediately switched off the floor buffer. Prince Charming's eyes were closed and his head had lolled to the side, but with the noise stopped, all it took were a few gentle strokes down his back to bring him around. Syd and I breathed again, bought the supplies and took him home.

We'd had Prince Charming for maybe a couple of months, when Syd woke up one morning to find him dead. After the crying subsided (for both of us), I told Syd she could stay home from school. I used a towel to lift Prince Charming from his cage, wrapped him up and placed him in a shoebox. We decided I would bury him in the woods off a nearby bike trail.

I found my garden spade, picked up the shoebox and went outside. Not until I'd walked a few yards up the path did it occur to me how obvious it was that I was the mother of a kid whose rabbit just died, who was single with no one else to pawn the task off on, and was looking for a place to bury the beast. It was still morning but brutally hot.

A few feet into the woods was a little bush that looked perfect for bunny-burying so I slinked off the trail, knelt in the dirt and started digging. Then I thought: What if someone comes by? This was public land and bunny-burying was probably frowned on. If someone did come along, I would pretend to be talking on my cell phone. It seemed to me that would minimize the risk of anyone questioning me.

Digging a hole, even one that short and shallow was hard work in that heat. My hair had fallen into a page boy droop that made me look like Prince Valiant's sweaty father. Then I heard some women coming up the path. When they were close enough to see me, I started talking into the phone with a no-nonsense clip I hoped would deter them from speaking to me. Then I fumbled the phone and accidentally hit the speaker button. Loudly and clearly came the words: "I'm sorry, but your call cannot be completed at this time. Please try again later."

The look I gave the women was intended as a warning that I'd just escaped from prison. They walked on, eyeing me cautiously as they passed. I didn't care; I had a bunny to bury. 

Prince Charming was the last of our rabbits. Maybe someday we'll try again. But right now, two things are sure: 

Fainting bunnies are adorable.

And when they never wake again, it hurts.











  






Saturday, May 17, 2014

Imelda's Doghouse

My dog, Hope keeps swiping my shoes and I have a theory as to why. I think it’s resentment over my refusal to buy her any shoes of her own. Now, I have two children to buy shoes for and blessedly, they only have two feet each. This makes buying shoes a much more reasonable proposition than buying shoes for them plus Hope who, like most dogs, has four feet. If I'd wanted to buy that many shoes, I'd have had two more kids.
Not only would buying Hope shoes blow my budget, I would have to find shoes designed to fit those four ugly paws she has. And I'd have to take her shopping where we'd have the issue of her prima donna, Imelda attitude and her constant flip-flops (sorry) over whether the shoes on her back feet should match the shoes on her front or if she should go for two different styles.  If Hope thinks she’s so smart, she should impress me by asking for just one pair and then learning to walk on her hind feet.
Sometimes Hope doesn’t flat out steal my shoes; sometimes she just “borrows” them. Case in point: when she "borrowed" my sandals and had that picture up there taken at Glamour Shots. And we still don’t know how she got to the studio because Hope can’t drive with shoes on.
But anyway, back to the swiping issue. Whenever the kids or I come home and let her out of her crate, she springs out, woofing and howling in what she expects us to believe is delight over our safe return. And I fell for that canine con-job for a while, but have come to suspect it is actually a release of pent up anger over having spent the day in the clink combined with her rotten attitude about the whole shoes thing. 

And she wouldn't have to spend the day in the clink if she hadn't chewed up the sofa when we were at the movies one night. Granted, it wasn't the newest sofa, and it was plaid. Maybe Hope's not Scottish - or maybe she hates plaid. Anyway, as she’s running around like this, feigning happiness, she darts into my room, grabs one of my shoes in her mouth and dashes around the apartment with it, stopping every few seconds to give it a little chomp.
Despite my best efforts to snatch back the shoe or to remember to just keep the bedroom door shut, I now have at least five half pairs of shoes. I didn’t think there was any such thing as a half pair of anything, but now I know there is; there are half pairs of shoes. And where she’s stashed the missing shoes is a complete and utter mystery. I’ve looked under the bed, behind the chewed-up plaid sofa, and even in my closet which with Hope’s lack of opposable thumbs you’d think would be off-limits. Maybe the cat let her in.
I don’t know, I suppose Hope could be right. Maybe I should buy her some shoes. Maybe if I do, my missing ones will mysteriously reappear the next morning, with telltale doggie drool still drying. 

No, on second thought, I refuse to be bullied by a dog who, if it weren't for me would still be at the pound cooling her unclad heels.
Hope, hear this: I’m mad as heck and I’m not going to take it anymore. I want my shoes back now and I want you to ixnay on the “orrowing-bay.” 

Chew on that, why don't you?

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Juny, We Hardly Knew Ye

Juniper was a Christmas present from me to my daughter, Syd, who joyously picked her out from among all the other guinea pigs at the pet shop. She was still a baby guinea pig and quite small, even as guinea pigs go. She was a funny-looking, short-haired, furry piece of patchwork with white, black, and tan splotches and shiny, beady little eyes.

Juniper

As far as Syd was concerned, nothing was too good for Juny, and with her own money, she bought Juny a roomy cage with a ramp, plenty of toys, and nutritious little treats. Juny, who was no dope, quickly learned on which side her bread was buttered and whistled merrily whenever Syd walked in the room.

But I don't think Juny saw merely a meal ticket in Syd. She seemed to genuinely like Syd, who took a hands-on approach in caring for Juny, including plenty of time exploring the apartment, snuggling in Syd's lap, or nestled in Syd's gentle hands. 

The other day, I was at work and got the kind of call parents dread, the kind where you know it's one of your kids. All you hear is sobbing on the other end, and you can't understand what they're saying. It was Syd, who finally managed to tell me that Juny was dying. 

In the car, my mind flashed back three years to when Syd and her brother, Jon were in the park with their pet rabbit, and a dog snatched it off Syd's lap and killed it right there in front of both kids. It took all of us days to even begin to move past that, and even now it's upsetting to think about. I wondered if Syd was flashing back, too.

At a red light, I consulted my phone and got the address for the closest emergency animal hospital. I called Syd en route and told her to wrap Juny in a towel and get ready to come to the car. When I saw Syd, my heart broke. She was chalk white, her eyes were swollen, and she was holding a tiny bundle close to her heart.

As soon as Syd was in the car and buckled in, I peeled out of there, and once I felt I could avert my eyes from traffic, I looked at Juny lying in the towel, face poking out, nose pale. I reached over and brushed my finger along her cheek.

"What is going on with you, Juny? What are you trying to prove?" As I spoke these words to this so sick guinea pig, I kept my voice very soft because I had this idiotic feeling that she could understand and would think I really was blaming her for putting us to all this trouble and making us feel so awful. And then, of course, I started to bawl.

"Mom, please don't cry," Syd said, her huge, teary, saucer eyes staring hard at me. "I'll lose it if you cry. Please stop." So, I focused on the road and tried to do as she asked. I didn't do it very well.

"I wonder what happened," I said, reaching over again to stroke the little face.

"Maybe I didn't clean her cage often enough," my daughter said, and shame at the very idea hung in her voice. "When I saw her, I took her out of the cage and held her and kept saying, 'I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.'"

"No, Syd. You took very good care of her. It wasn't anything like that."

And then, as it usually does when one comforts children with dead or dying pets, the question of an afterlife came up. But I was the one who needed reassurance.

"I think Juny's headed someplace nice, don't you?" I asked.

Syd's answer was emphatic. "The Rainbow Bridge." She said this as if God Himself consulted her before commissioning it.

"The what?"

"The Rainbow Bridge," she repeated. "It's a bridge where pets go when they die to wait for their owners. When their owners die, they meet at the bridge and cross over together into Heaven."

"Oh, Syd, that sounds like a really great place," I said. "I'm sure that's where Juny's headed."

We arrived at the hospital, rushed Juny in, and were immediately whisked to a room. I was handed a form to fill out while Syd sat, distraught in a chair and Juny lay motionless on the exam table, still wrapped in the towel.

The vet scooted into the room, bent over Juny, and laid a stethoscope against the tiny rib cage. "What happened?" she asked, and since she seemed to be asking Juny, neither Syd nor I answered. We didn't know what happened anyway, so we wouldn't have been much help. The vet straightened up and said, "I think she's gone."

"You don't need to fill out the rest of that form," the vet tech said, relieving me of the form and the clipboard. Suddenly, and more than anything, I, who hate forms, wanted to fill it out because filling out a form implied that Juny still had a chance.

"Would you like us to dispose of her?" asked the tech.

"I don't know. What do people usually do?" I asked.

"Well, some people take them home and bury them," she replied. "Or we can have her cremated and give you back the ashes."

"How much would that cost?" I asked the tech who went away to look up the price. While she was out of the room, I walked to Juny and gently pulled back the towel. 

'How could a newly dead guinea pig look so different from her living self?' I pondered. A spark was gone, some spark beyond motion and breath. Even her fur seemed duller and her body flatter.

I'm sure there are dozens of physiological reasons for all of that and that one would have to be a giant optimist or a pure idiot to find reassurance in Juny's new corporeal state. I'm hoping that it was optimism, but know that at times, I have been a pure idiot.

So, I'm not saying I took Juny's physical transformation as proof that a spirit once inhabited that little form, but I still felt reassured. I stroked the little face some more as if stroking it could give Juny comfort. But Juny was probably already hightailing it to the Rainbow Bridge and couldn't care less if I was stroking her face.

The tech came back, consulting a paper on her clipboard. She was searching for the price category covering Junies weighing less than 12 ounces.

"That would be $100," she said, glancing up at me.

One-hundred dollars? The sum rang in my head. One-hundred dollars to cremate one little guinea pig, a guinea pig that was small even as guinea pigs go? A guinea pig that only cost $40 when she was alive?

"Okay, that's what we'll do," I said, handing her my debit card. But really, one-hundred dollars?

"Mom," Syd whispered, "that's too expensive. I don't mind burying her." But I couldn't expect her to bury Juny, and I sure didn't want to do it. And we'd have to get permission from the apartment managers and then buy or borrow a shovel. I just didn't have it in me to do all that.

"It's okay, Syd. This way you'll always have her with you." The tech left the room then came back, loaded down with little boxes.

"These are your choices for storing the ashes," she said. 

With the exception of a little coffin-shaped box, each tiny container looked suspiciously like a cookie tin from our local dollar store. It crossed my mind to offer up my own cookie tin if it would cut down on the cost, but I chose the high ground and kept my mouth shut.

"Which one do you want, Syd?" I asked.

"That one," said my daughter, pointing to one I had somehow overlooked. It was actually a lovely little metal box and Syd did well to have chosen it.

"Oh, that's a nice one," commented the tech. "That's the Rainbow Bridge design. I like that one, too." 

If the Rainbow Bridge was famous enough that there was even an "urn" named after it, maybe God really had commissioned it.

"The cremation people will come here for her on Monday and you can pick her up again on Thursday." 

Pick her up again on Thursday. The tech said it as though we were just sending Juny out to be groomed, and she'd be back on Thursday all spruced up.

"Syd, if it would help, I'll buy you another guinea pig tonight," I offered.

"I don't know, Mom," she said. "I think I need to wait a while; not just for myself but out of respect for Juny."

And so it was that we came to wait for . . . three . . . whole . . . days. When you're used to having something in your life that you can scoop up and love on a whim, there's a hole left when it's gone. Syd picked out a Netherland dwarf rabbit. So far, she has yet to name him officially, but his working moniker is Prince Charming. He is rather dashing, especially when we try to catch him and put him in his cage. So maybe that's the name she'll keep.

So, as Prince Charming settles in, we still remember Juny. If I'd thought she felt well enough to listen on the way to the vet, I'd have given her a heads up about our other "pals with paws" who'd gone before her, and some advice for when she met them at the Rainbow Bridge.

I'd have said, "Bill and Clawdia are good cats, but Bill will think himself too cool to show any interest in you at first, and Clawdia gets lost easily, so don't let her wander far from the bridge. Thumper is the rabbit who had that unfortunate run-in with a husky, so I doubt he'll be hanging out near the dogs. Then again, he probably has some kind of double jeopardy protection in the afterlife and can't get hurt again, but who could blame him if he steers clear? And please tell him we're sorry he got stuck with such an unoriginal name, but he already had that name when we adopted him."

Some might think it silly to take the death of a guinea pig so seriously, or to write about it with such gravity. To those people I say it's probably been too long since you last held such a tiny creature in your hands, or heard it whistle when you walked into the room.