Boscobel Dial Sample Column – May 19, 2004

“The reality is…”

I have no problem giving dead pet fish a burial at sea. Wrap the carcass in toilet paper, a quick flush, and the funeral is complete. It saves time, energy, and prevents the thing from smelling up the kitchen garbage as it starts to decompose.

My children, however, view things differently. To them, a pet funeral is a sacred event not to be taken lightly, a ritual to help the deceased pass on to their respective other worlds, be it fish/bird/dog/turtle/duck/guinea pig heaven. It allows for them to release their grief, as well as any guilt, with the added bonus of being allowed to dig a hole in the yard without getting yelled at.

This week, our family suffered a tragedy with the passing of my nine year- old son Reilly’s guinea pig, Emily. After listening to constant begging for five months, Santa,  experiencing a weak moment in the pet store, brought her for Christmas a year ago. She was his first real pet, and although I wondered if she would receive the proper care and attention, we said she could stay. Emily squealed incessantly, gnawed on the wallboard, and had toilet habits that left much to be desired. She smelled like a goat, and because of this, my son’s room and the entire upstairs did, as well. But she was cuddly, and sweet, and chirped whenever he talked to her or held her. The bond was there, and for this I worried. Guinea pigs have a relatively short life span, (about four to six years), and my son does not handle death well. Last summer he caught a an inch- long trout  in my mother’s pond, whom he appropriately named ‘Jaws’. Apparently, such fish do not thrive well in a coffee can on a bookshelf in a darkened room, because after two weeks of confinement, it went belly up. I secretly sent him to fish heaven via the porcelain express, and the wrath that followed was thunderous, the tears poured like rain.

I had stolen Reilly’s opportunity, his given right, to say goodbye. I spent a month begging for forgiveness, and have only just recently removed the makeshift paper tombstone from the back of the tank that read the epitaph, “Here lies Jaws. May he Rip forever.” Last Tuesday, Emily stopped eating and squealing. Her breathing became shallow and rapid, and her breath smelled of rotten onions. I vacillated between taking her to the vet or waiting to see if her malaise and lethargy would pass, but by Friday it became apparent  the situation was going to result in a rather grim outcome. I sat Reilly down and explained that sometimes creatures get sick, and we can’t fix them. I told him that, to the best of my knowledge, God had a very special job for her, and it was time to say goodbye. At that point, I had no idea how imminent death was, but I thought it best to forewarn him, rather than expose him to the shock of waking up in the morning and finding her cold, dead body after rigor-mortis had set in. Not a good way for anyone to have to start their day. Reilly held her on his lap for 6 hours, and prayed for her to live, pleading that HE needed her more than God, and stroked her fur gently. He whispered in her ear to reassure her that, yes, he was still there, and that yes, he really loved her. He believed that he could love her back to health. I stood in the doorway, with a lump in my throat so large, I thought it would choke me.

I too, wanted to believe that love was all that was necessary to keep life going, yet the realist in me knew it was not, because sometimes we are unable to hold shut death’s door. The force pulling on the other side has far more strength than we are given as mere mortals, and the only option we are faced with is to let go of the handle and trust in the unknown. With one tiny last chirp, Emily took her last breath, and died in the arms of the child who loved her so desperately. At that moment,  I was struck by the realization that her passing would be one of the first in a long series of goodbyes he would face in his life, yet simultaneously, I felt overwhelmed by the tenderness and unrelenting devotion he had shown his small creature. We have decided to hold her funeral on Tuesday.

Although it’s only a start, I have great hopes for my child, because I witnessed his use of the tools of compassion, strength and bravery. What he chooses to do with them are left to be seen, but as Mother Teresa once said, “We cannot do great things. We can only do small things with great love.”

Where better to begin the cycle than with our children?