Posted on Thursday 31 August 2006
Monty is gone.
Monty was a rat, a pet rat, Bookzilla’s pet rat. She had two, Edgar, named for Edgar Allen Poe, and Monty, named for Monty Python.� Monty took sick during a camping trip to the San Juans.� Bookzilla’s mother and stepfather go out there every year to some land they own and camp there.� They take the rats because the rats go with Bookzilla from house to house.
Monty came back from the camping trip and was obviously ill.� Bookzilla’s mother and Bookzilla took Monty and Edgar to the vet.� Edgar didn’t show all the symptoms of Monty.� Monty was not very mobile.� The vet said that it was some sort of respiratory infection.� I think that was true because Monty would hunch up and huff.� He was not doing well.
Bookzilla handled the illness very well.� Her mother talked things over with her and a limit was set on how much money would be spent on them.� Bookzilla seemed to understand boundary we set for pets.� Pets are not people and they can’t tell us what is wrong.� Vets can sometimes help them, but many times, multiple invasive procedures can’t help them, but merely prolong the pet’s suffering.� Part of the treatment for both Edgar and Monty was an antibiotic to be administered thrice daily.
Bookzilla had a viral infection yesterday, a high fever last night, and it seemed to return this afternoon.� She didn’t play with Monty much today.� At bed time, Bookzilla went into give them their medicine and found Monty in his cage.
I think there was some bewilderment about what to feel.� She held him for a while, and we talked about how he had not been doing well, that he wasn’t feeling the pain any more.� Grief is hard to handle.� It comes in waves.� If it were constant, it would be easier to process.� But there are times when you think that you should feel something, but it isn’t there.� Then when you don’t expect it, sadness comes pouring in and swamps you.
I told her about my first pet, a cat, and how I liked that cat.� The cat died, hit by a car while crossing the state highway, M-40, on which we lived and on which cars traveled at high speed.
We talked about burying Monty and making a grave stone for him.� There is a small grovish area in back of the house in which we shall inter him.� Bookzilla said that she wanted a gravestone.� I offered to get some concrete and make a gravestone and she said that it was a good idea.� While we were talking, she moved with her emotions, sad and pensive in turns.
I told JMan about Monty.� He was a little lost about how to feel.� When I was his age, the girl, Barbie, from across the street was killed by a car.� She ran across M-40 and was hit by a car.� She didn’t look, or didn’t comprehend the speed of the car.� She was seven.� I was at my aunt’s house at a sleep over and my oldest brother came over to tell me.� He tried to prepare me for bad revelation, but I was nonplussed by it.� I have always wondered why I didn’t feel more at the time.� When I was in my teens, a boy who was my bitterest enemy died and I mourned the loss for a long time.� Mostly I mourned not being able to apologize for all the ire and hate I had felt toward him.� JMan struggled with his feelings, knowing that he should feel sad and wondering why he didn’t feel sadder.
Bookzilla talked to her mom on the phone and then said she wanted to go to bed.� I went in to tuck her in and I wanted to say something to somehow connect to her.� I asked her if it seemed unfair that Monty was gone so quickly.� She said yes.� I said that I understood and that it was too young for her to have learned this lesson already.
After some reflection, I think I have better things to tell her.� I will tell her that Monty will live as long as she remembers him.� I will tell her that Monty will always be a part of her.� I will probably think of other things to tell her.