As we walk up the stairs to the back door, Poppet says to me sadly, “She’s never coming back, is she?”
“No Poppet. She’s not,” I reply, weary with this line of conversation and yet concerned for my daughter’s feelings.
“That’s the sad thing about someone dying,” I start to explain again. “It’s forever.”
My daughter pauses with this thought, looking again towards the garden bed.
“The good thing though is that we still remember her and remember how much we enjoyed being with her. She was happy too when she died. Right?”
“Yes,” Poppet replies and continues up the steps.
We’d buried Jessie, the guinea pig eight months ago near the back steps. We’d held a small funeral, using some flowers I’d bought and a shoebox in which Jessie laid wrapped in beautiful pink satin cloth. Mum had supplied a plant that we’d planted nearby, as a memorial. Had I known then that Poppet would take such a long time to come to terms with Jessie’s death, I’d have selected an alternative place to bury the guinea pig.
We’d rescued Jessie a several years earlier and she had become a much-loved member of the family. She annoyed the cat, caused my partner no end of anxiety, (“What if she escapes? What if the cat attacks her?”), enchanted me and became a close friend of Poppet’s.
We’d even changed the lyrics of Carly Simon’s song, Jesse and sang it often. “Jessie, I will cut fresh grass for you and Jessie, I will change the water for you and Jessie, I will change your cage for you…”
One evening, I went to put more straw in her cage as the night had become chilly. I lifted the lid to see her lying on her side. For a fleeting moment, I thought she was asleep, then the sad realisation came that she had died. Curiously, I had no idea what caused her death. It may have just been old age, for we didn’t know much of her history.
I debated as to whether I should wake Poppet up with the news or wait until the morning. Deciding to leave it until the morning, I cleaned Jessie’s cage and found a remnant of pink satin cloth in which to wrap her. I placed her on top of a fresh bed of straw, a few tears running down my face. How am I going to handle this one, I wondered, saddened by the death of this cute little creature and with the knowledge that I would need to tell Poppet.
“Poppet,” I said hesitantly after she had finished her breakfast. “I need to tell you something that has made me feel sad,” I continued.
“When I went to check on Jessie last night,” I paused, watching Poppet’s face. Would she guess what had happened, I wondered.
“Well, when I opened her cage, I thought she was asleep. She was lying on her side with her eyes closed.” Poppet hadn’t made any connection. She simply waited for me to continue.
“Poppet, Jessie has died.”
Putting my arms around her, I waited a couple of minutes in silence for Poppet to process this news.
“Would you like to see her?” I asked.
Poppet nodded. Taking my hand, she followed me outside to the porch where the cage was. I lifted the lid so Poppet could see Jessie.
“You can touch her if you like,” I suggested. Poppet gently stroked her friend’s furry face. “Would you like to pick her up?” Poppet nodded. She leant over the cage, and then gently picked up the guinea pig.
“Let’s go inside,” I said opening the backdoor.
We sat in the lounge room on the couch, Poppet holding Jessie, who’d become very cold and in a state of rigour mortis. It was such an enormous contrast to the living creature we had with us just the night before.
Poppet unwrapped the cloth and explored Jessie’s body. It was as if she was looking for a clue as to why her guinea pig had died. Unfortunately, I couldn’t offer a decent explanation. “Her heart had stopped beating,” was all I could offer.
I realise it might sound macabre, but because Poppet takes sometimes a very long time to process things emotionally, we took a photo of her holding Jessie one last time. I figured Poppet could at least look again at Jessie just prior to her burial, together with all the other photos we had of Poppet with the living version of Jessie.
She has looked at the photos several times since, sometimes shedding a tear. As I say, it’s been a slow process for Poppet to come to terms with the permanence of death. We sometimes talk about her feelings about Jessie’s death too. I guess she is much like we are in that when we lose someone close to us, we often remember them. The difference between us though is that it isn’t easy for Poppet to do, for her language skills haven’t developed to the point where she can describe her reactions and emotions.
Coming up to Christmas last year, when people asked Poppet what she’d like from Santa, without exception, she replied, ‘a guinea pig and a book’. Fortunately, Santa knew of a nearby guinea pig refuge and selected two cute creatures that have now have a new home in Poppet’s care, (overseen of course, by two parents). Welcome Caramel and Lucy. You both have a big space to fill.