Requiem for a Rodent
A body got buried in our backyard the other day. Since this is New Jersey, where piano wire is more likely to be used on your airway than your Steinway, it’s not an unusual occurrence around here. But this was no mob rat going into the ground. It was more like a cousin of a rat. A gerbil, to be specific.
After three years as a welcomed and sometimes even noticed member of our family, Veggie the gerbil breathed her last.
When it comes to pets for our son, my wife and I have been gradually working our way up the evolutionary scale. We started him off with an ant farm. Then we moved on to a bowl of fish. Before making the leap to a dog or cat, we decided there would be at least one more intermediary phase to test his powers of responsibility. This would be the “reptile or rodent” phase. A turtle wasn’t appealing to me or my wife (it would only stir up memories of bad service at the DMV), so enter a couple of little long-tailed furballs from the local pet store. Immediately named by our son, these two young gerbils, sisters, became Sniffer (made sense) and Veggie (made no sense, but whatever, the kid was five and it’s a gerbil).
The average lifespan of these critters is two to three years. So we knew that by the time our boy was seven or eight, he would have to deal with the death of something he’d grow more attached to than ants or fish. And then one morning we discovered Veggie next to the exercise wheel, as cold and lifeless as, well, a pet turtle in perfect health. The tears flowed down our son’s little face and he erupted in a wail of grief.
I lifted Veggie out and held her in my palm, so he could pet her one last time. “She lived a good, happy life,” I said. “Would you like us to have a funeral?”
He nodded. “And then can I have candy? I’m very sad.”
We put the gerbil in an empty tissue box and went outside. In a corner of the backyard, I dug a small grave. “Do you want to say anything about her?” I asked, as I placed the tiny body in the hole. He shook his head. “You.”
I cleared my throat. “Lord, we thank you for the life of Veggie. She was an excellent gerbil. Who could forget with what passion and skill she chewed through cardboard toilet-paper tubes until they lay in fragments around her? Or with what relentless energy she would run on the wheel, legs a blur underneath her. Where did she think she was going? Who knows. But I tell you this: she ran straight into our hearts.” I looked at my son. “How’s that?”
“Pretty good. Is she in heaven now?” he asked, as I patted earth over her little plot and lay two twigs on top like a cross.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “There’s a place for her there. An eternity of sunflower seeds and limitless plastic tunnels awaits. And she’ll be perfectly safe.”
“How do you know?”
”Because there are no cats in heaven. They all go to the other place.”
“Yay!” he shouted.
We stood and stared at the gravesite for a quiet moment. Then my son began to cry again. It was an angry cry.
“Why would God let Veggie die? I’m mad at God!”
I wrapped my arm around him. “All things die, cubby. It’s because we live in a broken world. But God loves us so much he’s going to make everything new. That’s what Easter’s all about. Jesus makes it possible for us to live forever in heaven, even though on earth we all die.”
His eyes widened. “Easter? So what about the Easter Bunny? Will he die too?” Now he was really upset. “WILL THE EASTER BUNNY DIE TOO?!”
“Not for a long, long time,” I said. “And when he gets old, he’ll train a new Easter Bunny.”
“He’d better!” he whined. “Because I need him to bring me lots of candy to help me not be sad about Veggie!”
“Yes, you mentioned that.”
“A LOT of candy.”
“Heard you the first time.”
“Goodbye, Veggie. You were the best gerbil in the whole entire universe.”
We turned and began walking back to the house.
The death of a person or animal you care about isn’t easy to cope with at any age. But dealing with it is a part of life, sooner or later. I can’t imagine pondering death without the hope of heaven. Thank you, Jesus, for making a way.
“Daddy, instead of pets that only live a few years, can I get a baby brother?”
“Whoa! Hey! You know what pet can live forty or fifty years? A turtle! You’re gonna love it!”
“A TURTLE!! Daddy, can we get it now? Please?!”
“Absolutely! Most fun pet ever!”
Thank you, Jesus, for making a way … out of that close call.