jngaio.com

This was my pet rat: greedy, lazy, lovely, Optimus Prime. She passed away suddenly several months back after struggling with cancer. 

This cutie with droplets of soy milk on her chin was my other pet rat: brave, bold, Buttercup. After Optimus died, as often happens to rats, she pined away for her lost companion and became depressed and timid. Soon after, she developed spinal lesions, lost the use of her hind legs and became very ill. Today I had to take her into the vet to be euthanised.

The hard part about this was that she was still so alert, still gobbling down food, still had that spark of life even though she could hardly move. Obviously she could not tell me what she wanted and so I had to go by what I would want for myself – to die with dignity and as little suffering as possible. Still, it was a hard choice and I was bawling my eyes out the entire time. 

When I was a kid, I lived on a small farmlet, and when I "grew up" I wanted to own a zoo, be a farmer or be a vet. I grew up reading Gerald Durrell, Dr Doolittle, Watership Down and whatever other animal books I could possibly get my grubby little paws on. At one point in time, my entourage of pets consisted of two dogs, three cats, a rat, two guinea pigs, three rabbits, tropical fish, goldfish, axolotls, two lizards, two chooks, a budgie, a pony and there's probably more that I'm forgetting. There was a big period in my life when I was chronically ill and so didn't have the usual friends kids do, so my companions were my pets.

Growing up on a farm catching tadpoles, walking around with pet snails on my face and stumbling upon ducks' nests full of eggs while exploring with my dogs, as well as having a very intelligent scientist father, has also given me the perspective where evolution makes absolute sense to me. Also, I've only recently really realised that the way I see animals is quite different to how many people seem to see them – to me, animals are far less alien and "other" and far more like not-so-distant relatives who simply speak a different language and operate by somewhat different rules.

That is not to say I anthropomorphise animals (though as a philosopher who I read and have now forgotten the name of pointed out; sometimes it can be useful for us to anthropomorphise as this can actually be empathy.  Don't animals feel pain? Don't they have the same intense desire to live as we do?). Animals are different to us but they are neither empty, nor stupid and really, they're not so drastically different. So I admit to being an animal lover to the point where I don't kill flies, I catch them and take them outside. I admit that my feelings of kinship to animals helped lead me to becoming a vegetarian. I learned that human beings can thrive without eating meat and suddenly I no longer had a justification for asking something that doesn't want to die... to die for me.

And in my convoluted way, this brings me back to what I wanted to talk about; death and mortality. 

When I was 6 years old, I decided I didn't believe in God. This realisation came with the realisation that I no longer believed in heaven and so when I and my loved ones died, we would simply cease to exist and would rot away just like the sheep that died in the swamp on our little farm. This thought would terrify me at times with the sense of its darkness, coldness, emptiness and inevitability. I would often sit outside my parents' bedroom door at night and listen to hear if they were still breathing and if I couldn't hear them, I'd come into their room and wake them. I would sometimes be scared to close my eyes and go to sleep, in case I never woke up and this is why I needed a nightlight – maybe this is why many children need nightlights?

I still get that sensation from time to time. Recently, I had a dream about my father dying only to find that my brother had dreamt the same thing. I am not a superstitious person, but for a couple of days I admit that had me anxious; my parents are currently living in Papua New Guinea, a country that is beautiful but dangerous so I tend to worry about them anyway.

I've been living with my partner, Wes, for the last two years and we sleep in the same bed almost every night. Sometimes, while he sleeps, I will hold myself incredibly still and quiet, until I hear that he is breathing. Sometimes during a moment of extreme happiness with him, I will suddenly be overwhelmed by sorrow because this can not and will not last forever because there is no such thing. Sometimes while I hold him in my arms and feel he is warm and the universe is enormous and cold and he is mortal, I feel time vanishing.

This is not necessarily an unhealthy sensation to get from time to time as though it can send me spiralling into depression, it also means that I deeply value this life I am lucky enough to live, this love I am lucky enough to feel, these people I am lucky enough to know and these moments I am lucky enough to savour. 

Anyway, I don't have any extra special point for writing this entry, my experience is far from unique (death's pretty universal, huh?). I just wanted to record these thoughts because I realised that every time I lose a pet (loss being the price of love I guess) I think about these things and feel a tremendous sense of loss. Loss not just for the one pet but for every pet I've had, for my childhood, my home in New Zealand, for the people I will one day lose, for my life that will one day end, for the sun that will one day burn out and so on. I think how none of this stuff that begins and ends means anything but it's even more amazing and beautiful because it is just so fucking ephemeral.