The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men,
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!– Robert Burns, “To a Mouse”
12.21.07: And Then There Were Three
Cutesy intros are usually my bread-and-butter, but there’s really no way to sidle humorously into this entry, so: the Widget is dead. His cage had been quiet for almost a day, which was very unusual, so I went to check on him and found him curled up in his tissue-box nest, buried so deeply under the shavings that I couldn’t even see him at first. It was obvious that he’d passed away very quietly in his sleep — which is more than a little consolation, since I honestly can’t think of a better way to go. Hell, I hope to die surrounded by fluffy shredded paper and with a walnut close at hand.
Of course, Tony and I are both very sad about this, because the Widget was the heart of the household — his cage was always at the center of whatever room we were in, every time we had a meal we’d share a bit with him, the cat thought he was her own personal television channel, and so on. But he was getting very old; I read that the average lifespan for his kind was around six months in the wild, and he was going to be two in February. His face had gotten that grey look that rodents get when they age, and he had been slowing down slightly over the last few months. (Oddly, though, he’d seemed to perk up in the last week or so, and was remarkably sprightly.) I’d been preparing myself for this, but it’s still a terrible moment when you look into your pet’s cage and realize it’s empty — not empty empty, but empty of life.
If it had been summer, we would have built a raft out of popsicle sticks, set his nest on top, set the whole thing on fire, and sent him off down the Mississippi — a true Viking funeral for a true warrior spirit. It being the dead of winter, however, we settled for wrapping the whole nest tightly in plastic bags, slipping some pumpkin seeds (his favorite) in with him, and setting the bundle gently into the dumpster. Hey, we live in an apartment; we couldn’t bury him outside even if the ground was thawed. I don’t put much store in reverencing the corpse; it’s the personality I loved, and once that’s gone, there’s just an empty shell — no need for special ceremonies or fancy burials, just a putting away of the flesh and a vow to remember the spirit. (But I would have liked to do the Viking funeral, just because I’m a bit of a pyromaniac.)
I know he was old, and I know he died peacefully, but it’s always a blow to lose a pet, particularly at Christmas. The house seems emptier now.
E-Mail Feedback
Tell me what you think of this entry! Praise me, condemn me, argue with me, send me flames—it’s all good. Fill out this form to send me a private e-mail comment about this entry.
« Oldest : ‹ Previous : Next › : Newest »
