Today while Moira and Eva were at school Iris was holding our little guinea pig Maria Estrella on her lap and watching Mary Poppins. I was working on the computer when she said to me, “Mama, Maria is all stretched out.” I looked over at her, and Maria was dead. She died right on Iris’ lap.
I knew Maria was sick. We had taken her to the vet and she was on antibiotics for a respiratory infection (often fatal in guinea pigs), but she seemed better and we were all sure that she’d be with us for the five to seven years of a regular guinea pig lifespan, not the 18 days we had her.
Death is part of the reason why I think pets are a vital addition to a family. It’s a good way for children to experience love and loss – just the sorts of big emotions they’re going to have in their lifetimes with the people they love. But the death of a family pet is never easy. There is much of parenting that seems effortless to me – or at least guided by common sense – but telling your children their beloved pet has died and finding the right words to explain the cycle of life and death, of love and loss, and to comfort them while crying yourself is not something that is easy to do.
This morning I reassured Iris that she hadn’t done anything wrong, that Maria’s heart had simply stopped beating because she was too sick. I held Iris while we cried, and then Iris carefully examined Maria’s body, looking at her open eyes and her limp legs and ruffling her silky fur. She wondered why Maria’s feet were wet, and I explained that her feet weren’t wet, they were cold. It was so obvious that Maria’s spirit was gone that Iris seemed to be quite aware of the distinction between life and death. We wrapped Maria in a pretty cloth and laid her in a peppermint tea box (she was that tiny) and put her in a safe place outside.
Then we waited for Moira and Eva to get out of school and went through the whole process again.
It’s surprising how much impact a little guinea pig can have in just a few days. Our house feels very empty without her, and yet also still full of Maria. Her orange is sitting on my cutting board, scraps of hay have not yet been swept off the rug where Iris tried to feed her and got carried away, and her empty cage is sitting on the trunk near the woodstove. Over the next few days all these physical traces of Maria Estrella will disappear. I’ll put away the toys the girls made for her, and disinfect her cage, and find a place to save the food and hay. We’ll bury her at my parents’ property so the girls can always visit her grave (they adore solemnly picking flowers to put on our other pets’ graves, none of whom they even remember) and then we’ll get another guinea pig. And we’ll look in her bright eyes and pet her soft fur and laugh when she gobbles and clip her toenails and feed her oranges and start to fall in love with her, too, and all the while we’ll know that she’ll die some day and break our hearts, but having her in our family will still be worth it.
Karabosse 