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.

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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.)