4 Months (almost)

So it's been nearly four months since Ginny's death and its still a difficult subject for me.

Since I'm living in an apartment with a roommate the pigs are housed in my bedroom, and I wake up every morning to hear their rustling and wheeking. It still hurts that I don't see her garent eyes first thing or being able to pet her. That last part, the petting, it the worst. The other pigs (Maggie, Clemmy, and Piper) all run away whenever I come near them and are really too skittish to be randomly picked up. Five minutes in your lap and they're already looking to be put back. Ginny loved petting so I could pick her up whenever I wanted with little hassle or even just scratch her nose while walking by. I try with the others, but each time they run away I still feel a lump in my throat.

Great, now I'm crying at work. Anyway, one of the main reasons I wrote an update was because I found a poem while looking for poetry and writing prompts for my students. This particular poem is about putting a beloved pet to sleep which, although not the same situation as mine, is similar to my feelings during and following Ginny's death.

Loyal, William Matthews

They gave him an overdose
of anesthetic, and its fog
shut down his heart in seconds.
I tried to hold him, but he was
somewhere else. For so much love
one of the principals is missing,
it's no wonder we confuse love
with longing. Oh I was thick
with both. I wanted my dog
to live forever and while I was
working on impossibilities
I wanted to live forever, too.
I wanted company and to be alone.
I wanted to know how they trash
a stiff ninety-five-pound dog
and I paid them to do it
and not tell me. What else?
I wanted a letter of apology
delivered by decrepit hand,
by someone shattered for each time
I'd had to eat pure pain. I wanted
to weep, not "like a baby,"
in gulps and breath-stretching
howls, but steadily, like an adult,
according to the fiction
that there is work to be done,
and almost inconsolably.

from Selected Poems and Translations 1969-1991, 1992
Houghton Mifflin, New York, NY

Death

My little baby, Ginny, is dead.

It has taken me about two weeks to write this entry. When I first tried a few days after her passing, I just wasn’t anywhere near ready to write about it. I started bawling when I wrote the words “trying to get a response from her.” And I just realized those words still bring tears to my eyes.

Ginny passed on the evening of 2 July (Thursday) and I never thought the death of a little rodent would affect me in such a profound way. It doesn’t help that she was my “favorite” piggy, who rarely ran away when being petted or picked up and loved gentle scratches between the eyes. She would close her eyes and open her mouth a little until I stopped. I’ll never forget those big, moist, garnet eyes watching me or the way we used to call her top crest a mohawk (a roach hairstyle, actually). She was a feisty and brave little girl from day one; in fact her name came from a feisty and brave redhead in a popular literary series.

My fondest memory though is from a quiet night spent by Dave and myself at home. We were sitting around watching TV and decided to give all the girls some lap time. Usually, it goes by chasing the pigs around the cage until we each catch one, take them to our sitting spot with a towel, then alternate petting them for about 15 minutes each. That evening, I had Maggie in my lap, Dave had Ginny on his chest. When came time to switch pigs, I put Maggie in Dave’s lap, then Ginny waddled off his chest to my lap. That little moment, which I’ve interpreted as affection, made my heart melt into a little puddle of love.

The other pigs have been doing fine though. That evening, after we buried Ginny, Maggie wandered around the cage several times, loudly sniffing. I can only imagine she was looking for Ginny whom she was bonded to. Eventually, she gave up and fell asleep where she last saw her. It broke my heart seeing that. The girls weren’t too interested in food the first couple days, but eventually were back to normal. In fact, they’ve been doing everything in a pack (more on that later).

Below is the description of that dreadful night, most of it from a journal entry. I don’t blame you if you don’t want to continue reading.

-----

5 July 2009

I feel like I need a few hits of morphine injected straight into my heart.

My little Ginny died Thursday evening.

I was scrambling around my room, getting things together to do laundry and cleaning my room up a bit. I noticed she had moved a couple times, both instances laying with her right foot sticking out. That’s usually a sign the room is a bit warm, so I turned the thermostat down a couple degrees (even thought it as 78F in the room).

When I came back, I saw her crawl from where she had last been laying (by the hay bin—the “kitchen”), dragging her foot behind her. That completely freaked me out, since I assumed she somehow broke her foot. After a brief panic attack, I ran to the fridge to look up the vet’s number, only to remember the number was already programmed into my phone. However, I discovered the vet’s office was closed.

In the mean time, the poor girl drug herself across the cage—slowly—to lay by Maggie in the fleece tent. I picked her up and placed her on a towel, petting her gently and pleading with her to not move and to promise me she would be ok. I tried convincing myself she would be ok until morning so we could rush her to the vet.

At that point I called Dave to let him know something was wrong with Ginny, secretly hoping he would have an answer. He told me he was on his way.

After I hung up, it happened.

The poor girl tried dragging herself off the towel, but I put her back and petted her again. Moments after that her little body began convulsing, with short jerks for about a minute. I petted her while desperately hoping someone at the clinic would pick up the phone. I knew what the jerking meant deep in the back of my head, but I was in denial. It just couldn’t be—she was too young.

It stopped and her breathing slowed. I petted her again, then shook her, trying to get a response from her. But she wouldn’t blink, she didn’t move her head in disapproval or make a sound. She just laid there, silent with a blank look in her eye.

I petted her, shook her, cried and yelled at her, demanding she do something. Anything.

But she didn’t. Ginny just laid there, limp and warm.

The rest of the evening was a blur, with Dave, Dad, and my brother showing up to comfort me and help bury her in Dave’s backyard. I remember wrapping her up in an old, bright curtain I had intended to use as a tent cover. Later I regretted not giving her something more comfortable to lay on in her sleep, like a little pillow. I regretted not letting her last minutes be spent next to her best friend-her sister-who always comforted her in stressful times. There are so many things I’ve blamed myself for in the last two weeks, most of it little things that were beyond my control or trivial.

I cannot wait to meet her again.

T’áá ‘ákódí. (That is all.)