shanmonster (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shanmonster) wrote2021-05-24 07:17 am
shanmonster) wrote2021-05-24 07:17 am
The Day My Chinchillas Died
On Wednesday I woke up around 6:30 am and went to check on the boys. I made sure their water bottle was full and the a/c was on, because the day was set to be the hottest one of the year, to date. The chinchillas were all pretty snoozy. Nadger was sandwiched between his hut and the spin saucer with his usual grumpy face going on. I scritched his throat (his favourite spot for scritches), and he leaned into it, looking less curmudgeonly. Dexter emerged from behind his hut and gave a big stretch, front legs and toes reaching out to full extension while he yawned. Spuddy stayed fast asleep inside his hut.
I went for a walk to pick up some garden supplies. I've recently started walking daily, something which I had a very difficult time doing a month ago. In the past month and a half, I've gone from less than 1000 steps a day to up to 12 km/day. My endurance continues to improve daily. I picked up a few things to farmers carry the 2.5 km home, and waited at an intersection as a transport truck loaded with pigs drove past. I looked at those round pink pigs all crowded together in the back of the truck and thought of the people who get arrested/fined for giving them water to drink. Factory farming is one of the most inhumane technologies of the modern world. These poor terrified pigs are crammed into a truck on a hot day with nothing to drink and no air conditioning, on their way to an abattoir where they will not be accorded any kindnesses before being slaughtered. I thought of Nuliajuk, mother of the sea. She demands that her children be given a final drink of water.
I got home. Did my gardening. It was starting to get hot out. I came indoors, heard the a/c going upstairs in the chinchilla room, and went to my room to get some work done. Normally, I fetch Spuddy to accompany me, but today I was going to be doing beadwork, and I didn't want him eating beads. So I left him upstairs.
The mat under my desk was all twisted up. I got down on the floor to straighten it and found one of Spuddy's whiskers. I know it's his because he is the one who likes to sleep on my lap while I work. I thought of him and smiled.
How was I to know that part of the a/c unit had fallen off, and instead of the upstairs room being cooled, the machine was piping in hot air?
When Kyle got home from work, he jumped into the pool. First swim of the year. The water was ice cold. After he was cooled off, we had supper. He was set to game that night, so he grabbed a handful of red liquorice for snacks and went up to the chinchilla room where his computer is. I decided I was going to go for a run, but first I wanted to go say hello to the boys.
I opened the door to the upstairs oven-furnace-fire-inferno. I ran up the stairs, saw Kyle struggling to fix the a/c in a state of shock, his mouth frozen in an O.
Dexter has always been an ugly sleeper. When he's shagged right out, he lies there like a dead thing. He was lying like a dead thing now. I reached into the cage and pulled his limp little body out. He was so warm. Still pliable. Maybe still alive? I ran around holding him to my breast, not knowing what to do. I carried him downstairs to the living room, laid him down on the coffee table. No sign of movement. Maybe he was unconscious. Where was the number for the emergency vet? I couldn't think straight. Where was the number? Who could help my boys? Spuddy already had one bad run-in with heat stroke a couple of years ago because he'd fallen asleep under a blanket. The worry I felt at the time stabbed my heart and lungs like knives. This was so much worse. This was all three of my boys. There had been no warning.
I sobbed without tears. It sounded fake and ridiculous to my ears, but it was happening, all the same. I wouldn't believe these sounds in a movie, but here they were. I hyperventilated my despair. Normally I'm the strong one in an emergency. Normally I'm the one with the cool head who takes charge. Not today.
I suddenly remembered Apollo, my leopard gecko, also up there in that room. I sprinted up the stairs to check on him. He was submerged in his water dish on the cooler end of the terrarium. I scooped up the water dish and ran back down the stairs. The water in his dish was hotter than I like my bathwater. I set the dish in the kitchen sink and grabbed my watering can, the one I use for my seedlings. It's full of room temperature water. I began sprinkling the water into the dish and onto his back. He began to revive, and I poured the water onto his back until he got irritated and ran out of the dish and into the sink. At least I saved one.
Dave laid Spuddy, Nadger, and Dexter out onto a cool air vent, but they were beyond resuscitation. They probably died early in the day. They probably died while I was beading. I can't look at my beadwork now without thinking that if only I'd been writing instead of beading, I'd have collected my little furry muse and noticed the a/c was broken. I might have saved them. I look at my beadwork and see each bead neatly stitched into place like a countdown to my chinchillas' deaths.
I know it's not my fault. I know it's not my fault. I know it's not my fault. But it feels like my fault, and there's nothing I can do to fix it.
Everything I do and see makes me think of my chinchillas. The cushion on my bed where Spuddy liked to sit. The door to the upstairs, where I'd open and say "Hello boys!" so they knew it was me and wouldn't be scared. The bar of soap on the edge of the bathtub with its toothmarks from Spuddy sneaking a nibble like a total weirdo. Who likes to eat soap? Spuddy did. Even out in my garden I'm reminded. I tended dandelion and plantain patches for my boys, bringing in the leaves for them to eat. I daily catch myself about to pick these snacks for them.
Animals have always been my best friends. During this pandemic, when I haven't been able to interact with other humans beyond my household, my chinchillas have been my constant companions. I carry them around the house. They sit on the couch with me to watch movies, and hide on my lap when the scary parts happen. They bum for treats when I eat crunchy things, looking at me with great expectation. Spuddy had a habit of noisily grinding his teeth when he wanted treats. Most mornings, I carry Spuddy downstairs so he can run around in the laundry room while I make my breakfast. He loved this, and as I got closer to the laundry room, I could feel the muscles bunch up in that moment before he bounded from my hands and ran into the room. I can still feel the way he leans forward in anticipation. And the signs when he was done, when he'd stand up on his hind legs as if to say, "Ok, pick me up now. I'm done."
Spuddy had always been a deeply fearful chinchilla. I think his first home was a terrible one. For the first couple of years, he had panic attacks so bad that his fur would fall out of him in tufts. He bit people in his terror. He cowered and cringed and cried out in alarm. In the past few years, he grew almost fearless. He was thriving and happy. And he learned to show his love by grooming me gently with his teeth.
Dexter, always the sook, loved attention but didn't like being picked up, and shied away from anything but nose boops. Within the past six months, with lots of encouragement, he'd finally learned that I was nothing to be afraid of, and he became the chinchilla most likely to jump up on my lap just to be with me. He came such a long way.
Nadger was the one who always held my finger in a gentle squeeze with his hands. It's how he showed his love. And if he was out and wanted to go back home, he had the most unsubtle way of telling me he was done. He would climb up on my chest, put his face only inches from mine, and stare me right in the eye. That's how I knew he wanted to go back.
There's no going back, now. Dave placed them into a cardboard box. I sat and stroked the fur of my best buddies, believing not believing believing not believing they were dead. How can they be dead when they were so happy and healthy? When I just bought them brand new food dishes? When I was just planning on scheduling a checkup for them because Nadger was quite elderly and I wanted to make sure he was doing ok? The three lay on their sides, noses together, tails curled in a furry triskelion. I noted how beautiful they were even in death and covered them with a pink pillowcase.
I can't bear to look at their cage. There's the expectation that they're still in there, waiting to hang out with me. I put a blanket over it as a visual reminder not to call out to them. Even while I was putting the blanket on the cage, I caught myself instinctually looking inside for them. Even then. The room is quiet. No stampeding sounds of Spuddy running sprints on the spin saucer. No slow moseys on the saucer by Nadger. No impressive distance training by Dexter. No crashes as Spuddy leaps inelegantly from the topmost perch. No gnawing on apple sticks or their hut. Just silence from their covered enclosure.
Grief knows nothing of logic. Grief is what happens when someone you love is not there anymore, when the love reaches out in impenetrable darkness for the object of that love. My love is still there, even if my boys are not. My love is huge.
I went for a walk to pick up some garden supplies. I've recently started walking daily, something which I had a very difficult time doing a month ago. In the past month and a half, I've gone from less than 1000 steps a day to up to 12 km/day. My endurance continues to improve daily. I picked up a few things to farmers carry the 2.5 km home, and waited at an intersection as a transport truck loaded with pigs drove past. I looked at those round pink pigs all crowded together in the back of the truck and thought of the people who get arrested/fined for giving them water to drink. Factory farming is one of the most inhumane technologies of the modern world. These poor terrified pigs are crammed into a truck on a hot day with nothing to drink and no air conditioning, on their way to an abattoir where they will not be accorded any kindnesses before being slaughtered. I thought of Nuliajuk, mother of the sea. She demands that her children be given a final drink of water.
I got home. Did my gardening. It was starting to get hot out. I came indoors, heard the a/c going upstairs in the chinchilla room, and went to my room to get some work done. Normally, I fetch Spuddy to accompany me, but today I was going to be doing beadwork, and I didn't want him eating beads. So I left him upstairs.
The mat under my desk was all twisted up. I got down on the floor to straighten it and found one of Spuddy's whiskers. I know it's his because he is the one who likes to sleep on my lap while I work. I thought of him and smiled.
How was I to know that part of the a/c unit had fallen off, and instead of the upstairs room being cooled, the machine was piping in hot air?
When Kyle got home from work, he jumped into the pool. First swim of the year. The water was ice cold. After he was cooled off, we had supper. He was set to game that night, so he grabbed a handful of red liquorice for snacks and went up to the chinchilla room where his computer is. I decided I was going to go for a run, but first I wanted to go say hello to the boys.
I opened the door to the upstairs oven-furnace-fire-inferno. I ran up the stairs, saw Kyle struggling to fix the a/c in a state of shock, his mouth frozen in an O.
Dexter has always been an ugly sleeper. When he's shagged right out, he lies there like a dead thing. He was lying like a dead thing now. I reached into the cage and pulled his limp little body out. He was so warm. Still pliable. Maybe still alive? I ran around holding him to my breast, not knowing what to do. I carried him downstairs to the living room, laid him down on the coffee table. No sign of movement. Maybe he was unconscious. Where was the number for the emergency vet? I couldn't think straight. Where was the number? Who could help my boys? Spuddy already had one bad run-in with heat stroke a couple of years ago because he'd fallen asleep under a blanket. The worry I felt at the time stabbed my heart and lungs like knives. This was so much worse. This was all three of my boys. There had been no warning.
I sobbed without tears. It sounded fake and ridiculous to my ears, but it was happening, all the same. I wouldn't believe these sounds in a movie, but here they were. I hyperventilated my despair. Normally I'm the strong one in an emergency. Normally I'm the one with the cool head who takes charge. Not today.
I suddenly remembered Apollo, my leopard gecko, also up there in that room. I sprinted up the stairs to check on him. He was submerged in his water dish on the cooler end of the terrarium. I scooped up the water dish and ran back down the stairs. The water in his dish was hotter than I like my bathwater. I set the dish in the kitchen sink and grabbed my watering can, the one I use for my seedlings. It's full of room temperature water. I began sprinkling the water into the dish and onto his back. He began to revive, and I poured the water onto his back until he got irritated and ran out of the dish and into the sink. At least I saved one.
Dave laid Spuddy, Nadger, and Dexter out onto a cool air vent, but they were beyond resuscitation. They probably died early in the day. They probably died while I was beading. I can't look at my beadwork now without thinking that if only I'd been writing instead of beading, I'd have collected my little furry muse and noticed the a/c was broken. I might have saved them. I look at my beadwork and see each bead neatly stitched into place like a countdown to my chinchillas' deaths.
I know it's not my fault. I know it's not my fault. I know it's not my fault. But it feels like my fault, and there's nothing I can do to fix it.
Everything I do and see makes me think of my chinchillas. The cushion on my bed where Spuddy liked to sit. The door to the upstairs, where I'd open and say "Hello boys!" so they knew it was me and wouldn't be scared. The bar of soap on the edge of the bathtub with its toothmarks from Spuddy sneaking a nibble like a total weirdo. Who likes to eat soap? Spuddy did. Even out in my garden I'm reminded. I tended dandelion and plantain patches for my boys, bringing in the leaves for them to eat. I daily catch myself about to pick these snacks for them.
Animals have always been my best friends. During this pandemic, when I haven't been able to interact with other humans beyond my household, my chinchillas have been my constant companions. I carry them around the house. They sit on the couch with me to watch movies, and hide on my lap when the scary parts happen. They bum for treats when I eat crunchy things, looking at me with great expectation. Spuddy had a habit of noisily grinding his teeth when he wanted treats. Most mornings, I carry Spuddy downstairs so he can run around in the laundry room while I make my breakfast. He loved this, and as I got closer to the laundry room, I could feel the muscles bunch up in that moment before he bounded from my hands and ran into the room. I can still feel the way he leans forward in anticipation. And the signs when he was done, when he'd stand up on his hind legs as if to say, "Ok, pick me up now. I'm done."
Spuddy had always been a deeply fearful chinchilla. I think his first home was a terrible one. For the first couple of years, he had panic attacks so bad that his fur would fall out of him in tufts. He bit people in his terror. He cowered and cringed and cried out in alarm. In the past few years, he grew almost fearless. He was thriving and happy. And he learned to show his love by grooming me gently with his teeth.
Dexter, always the sook, loved attention but didn't like being picked up, and shied away from anything but nose boops. Within the past six months, with lots of encouragement, he'd finally learned that I was nothing to be afraid of, and he became the chinchilla most likely to jump up on my lap just to be with me. He came such a long way.
Nadger was the one who always held my finger in a gentle squeeze with his hands. It's how he showed his love. And if he was out and wanted to go back home, he had the most unsubtle way of telling me he was done. He would climb up on my chest, put his face only inches from mine, and stare me right in the eye. That's how I knew he wanted to go back.
There's no going back, now. Dave placed them into a cardboard box. I sat and stroked the fur of my best buddies, believing not believing believing not believing they were dead. How can they be dead when they were so happy and healthy? When I just bought them brand new food dishes? When I was just planning on scheduling a checkup for them because Nadger was quite elderly and I wanted to make sure he was doing ok? The three lay on their sides, noses together, tails curled in a furry triskelion. I noted how beautiful they were even in death and covered them with a pink pillowcase.
I can't bear to look at their cage. There's the expectation that they're still in there, waiting to hang out with me. I put a blanket over it as a visual reminder not to call out to them. Even while I was putting the blanket on the cage, I caught myself instinctually looking inside for them. Even then. The room is quiet. No stampeding sounds of Spuddy running sprints on the spin saucer. No slow moseys on the saucer by Nadger. No impressive distance training by Dexter. No crashes as Spuddy leaps inelegantly from the topmost perch. No gnawing on apple sticks or their hut. Just silence from their covered enclosure.
Grief knows nothing of logic. Grief is what happens when someone you love is not there anymore, when the love reaches out in impenetrable darkness for the object of that love. My love is still there, even if my boys are not. My love is huge.