death in the basement

I began this post the 6th of September, (It is now the 6th of Ocotber - the blog's date is the date is was begun, not posted) Bimquist died the night/morning of the 5th/6th. Since then, school has begun in full force and I have had little time to type more than my notes. I have also not had time to 'grieve'. I couldn't grieve for a mouse in the way the word denotes the emotion, but there is a loss. Something that I was taking care of is dead, and there was nothing I could do about it - and I tried. His eyes had opened a day or two before he died. I was so proud of him. I don't suppose it makes sense to be proud of something that happens naturally, but I was proud nonetheless.
About two weeks into the semester, we had an assignment in Secondary Reading class to tell the class of a mistake we had made or a time that we had gotten into trouble. I sat and tried to think of times I had gotten into trouble and nothing came to mind. I tried to think of mistakes, and nothing came to mind that I could tell my class. Then Sheryl mentioned Bimquist and the hole under the bathroom cabinet. So I told my class of my long history of rescuing. I knew that there were ways that this instinct has encouraged me to make decisions in life that have had devastating consequences, but I also knew that I could not share this with 30 strangers. I began the story with our squirrel Nutkin. While we all still lived in the cabin in WeirWood, Dad brought home a squirrel that he had found walking along the driveway at work. It was in sad shape and it certainly needed a mom - we knew that ours would do it wonders. And wonders she did. During the day she monitored the goings-on of a four-year-old and a two-year-old while feeding a sickly, orphaned squirrel. Our squirrel Nutkin thrived and, still a juvenile, moved to town with us. He matured at the new mansion of a house and began to live outside. He still came in for treats and attentions, but he was getting less and less domesticated. We would see him in the yard and offer him food. He began to bite us as he took the food and (wisely) we offered it to him less often. We were certain that he was doing well and saw him about the yard often.
One day on the bus to swimming lessons, the neighbor girls came unto the bus singing 'We shot your squirrel, we shot your squirrel.' I don't remember how we got the whole story, but they, essentially, had. One of them had been trying to feed him and had been bitten. Concerned, another neighbor had shot our Nutkin. We learned from this, not that we shouldn't rescue animals, but that we should wean them into the wild - safely away from people.

For my class, I then told of the guinea pigs adopted from the petting zoo. I don't think that they actually needed to be rescued, but I am certain that I did not need to have them. Both of them were 'wild hair' guinea pigs - one had two colors and one had three. They were named Beely (Mbili) and Tatu respectively. I was violently allergic to them, only less than Sheryl was - who could not step into the basement. When the guinea pigs came to the basement, there were in residence: two cocktiels, one rabbit, two fish tanks, a dog and me. The menagerie was a bit overwhelming and my allergies took a turn for the worse. Apparently I was not the only one being affected by the mix of animals in the basement. The guinea pigs both became ill from a bacteria that I believe they may have gotten from the rabbit. I hadn't believed that a guinea pig could express pain until I was with those two piggies through their deaths. Thankfully, their final hours were just that - hours, not days. I had class right after Beely died and we always started class saying a little about ourselves- if the day was great or horrid. I had come from holding my dying guinea pig to class and didn't make it though my statement of how I was doing. I felt ridiculous for crying about a guinea pig in front of my class. But I suppose being real with each other on some level was the point of starting the day that way. I also knew that Tatu was sick and there would be nothing I could do for him. I tried though. I blended vegetables and feed him with a syringe. I hoped if I could keep him hydrated he would stay alive long enough to beat the bug he had.

After the story of the guinea pig I told of Bimquist and his hopping and his escape under the bathroom counter. Finally I told of his untimely death.

The instructor for the class tied my retelling of our pets' death to the lesson that I wished to portray by saying specifically we cannot always rescue - nor are we 'called' to. As teachers there will be students that we may want to rescue. Families that we want to rescue. Rescuing is not the calling. Rescuing so often times means trouble for all parties and in the worst cases, death to one and possibly hurt to the rescuer as well. I think my rescuer tendencies go hand-in-hand with my inability to hurt someone - at least to their face. This lack of assertiveness tends to wreck havoc on my boundaries and has made for some situations, that had the hurt been dealt with and dealt out early on, the resulting pain and suffering would have been far less.
(Digston did not die in an untimely manner, he lived to a ripe, old (unknown) age after his borrowed time given him by our cutting his teeth for him. - it did make more sense than getting him braces.)