A First Sadness

A very sober Boston walked into my bedroom at 7:00 this morning. I knew instantly that something was wrong. He normally bounds in, jumps up onto my bed, and laughs, "Good Morning, Grandma."

He said, "We have to take Ms. Pearl to the vet and give her a shot that will let her go to sleep." My morning was placed on hold immediately, as I hugged him, stroked his back, and told him what a good friend he had been to Ms. Pearl. He said, "Well, Rara cleaned her cage and fed her, but I always gave her treats, so I was half of who took care of her." I then reminded him of how much he played with her when he first got her.

Last night as he was giving her a treat, he noticed that she had been chewing her arm and that it was bloody. I don't know rats, but his mom told him Ms. Pearl would have to be put to sleep.

Of course he has shed tears before, but he's never had someone close to him die. As he was being sad, I told him he would always have wonderful memories of her time with him. I told him that ten years ago right about now J.R. died, and so right now I'm thinking of and remembering J.R. a lot and missing him every single day. I'm sure in his sweet little mind, the loss of a pet rat and the loss of a spouse are equal. (Don't you dare make jokes analogizing a husband to a rat!)

I told him how lucky Ms. Pearl was to have been adopted by him. I said, "Sometimes people are adopted by people who don't love them very much." Then I realized what I had said—no small Freudian slip there—and changed it to "Sometimes animals are adopted . . . ." He always loved Ms. Pearl.

So my heart is with my sweet Boston today. Death is a part of life, we all know that. It just would be nice if we could wait until age 26 to learn that fact, instead of age 6.