I’ve been inundated with pet stories. Vet stories. Happy stories and sad stories.
This led me to flash back through memories of childhood pets. I guess we had a bunch over the years. A dog, a kitten, a guinea pig, snakes, turtles, gerbils, fish, mice, and a chicken (a story for another time).
In my current family, we started out by petsitting the Montessori animals. Easier that way.
Let’s just say it was interesting. The frog (stunk), the chinchillas (made noise all night), the albino rabbit (ate our curtains), and the dwarf rabbit (made his heavenly exit while in our care). After all that practice, we agreed to take in a house broken rabbit (ate the couch, also departed for greener pastures above). Finally, we were ready for our own pet. Feeling confident, we brought home two dwarf hamsters and got them settled in their new home.
I still remember my third grader reading a story to Pickles and Fudge to help them adjust to their new home.
Sweet memory. And the day I came home from work greeted by a worried daughter. “Something is wrong with Pickles. Can you look at him?” Pickles was alone now after Fudge departed suddenly without fanfare. Cradling Pickles in my hand, I witnessed a swollen cheek and slanted eye. Something was seriously wrong.
Ghosts of past pets hopped into our minds and our musings.
Memories of Fudge flooded the room and the conversation. The rabbits (plural). Bubbles, the goldfish won at a school fair, who recently floated to the light. Sensing a theme?.
“Is Pickles going to die?”
My daughter went to bed worried and sad. My husband reminded me of the “facts.” Dwarf hamsters have a life expectance of only 1 – 2 years. Logic told him that if one hamster died, it might just be time for the other hamster to go as well.
I don’t like facts. They limit my options.
Deeply mired within facts and fearful conditioning about pets dying, we spent the weekend observing a decrease in activity. Was Pickles eating less? Was he having difficulty breathing? Were we getting closer to losing him? It was a helpless feeling that did nothing to support Pickles, nor my daughter’s ability to process what was occurring.
Rather than hanging around waiting for this little guy to die, we took some action.
We realizes we were projecting so much worry, sadness, and fear onto this tiny creature. Flowing healing energy through our hands, hearts, and minds, we held little Pickles. Pictures of dolphin friends, known for their healing ability, and other positive helpers were placed with near the cage. I felt a bit of relief as if I had ‘done something.’
Until I realized that my daughter’s first question upon waking or returning from school was “Is Pickles dead?”
Enough. I realized that if this was a larger animal, such as a dog or cat, I would already be at the vet to explore what was wrong. So, why wasn’t I calling a vet for Pickles? Was I unwilling to spend the time, money, or attention because he was small and had a predicted short lifespan? Was I viewing Pickles as expendable simply because he was a hamster?
