“If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans.” – James Herriot

I have some sad news to share tonight. Justine’s beloved hamster has finally crossed over the rainbow bridge into that mysterious otherworld that the great souls of tiny pets eventually return to.

I had brought my brother and his son back to our house after picking them up from the airport, and Justine immediately went to pick up her pet, who admittedly had been a little more lethargic than usual the past few days, making is bed directly under the water bottle, which he was constantly lapping. Within a few seconds of cuddles, she knew something was wrong and promptly dropped him on the living room floor in horror.  Indeed, there was something wrong. Not only didn’t he have his usual Benovolent Benson energy, he could barely move. But he wasn’t nearly as twitchy and macabre as Justine’s second hamster, Oreo, when he died in my hands a couple of months ago. Benson, true to his gentle nature, went peacefully and may or may not have waited for his imprinted owner to hold him one last time so they could say a proper goodbye. I am probably anthropomorphizing that little rodent and his attitudes, but the sweet relationship that Justine and Benson (her first pet) developed humbled me. As the lone wolf I’ve tended to be (I only had cats growing up, does that make sense now?) I had to admit that interspecies connections can be strong and beautiful, even with the smallest  and short-lived of creatures.

This suddenly reminded me so much of Vernon’s hospice period, even though the relativity factor kicks in (fortunately) making Benson’s final hours a lot shorter. So I kind of knew how to guide her. “This is sacred time, Justine. This is the time that we send him off with our blessings and love and all the things we still have a chance for him to know.” She refused to hold his body, so I held him close to her face, and she stroked him with her tiny hamster-sized fingers, just the way she always had. I could tell he relaxed. He didn’t even blink; his eyes were like passionfruit seeds, bright and black, but clearly off. “I’m going to miss him so much,” she cried. “He was a replacement for my dad.” What a strangely self-aware thing for a third-grader to say!  (I’m telling you, that fuzzball brought out the best of my daughter’s soul. How can I deny that?) After a while, I had to start getting ready for my dad’s birthday party. I asked if I should put him in his bed or if I should hold him close a little longer. She requested I hold him even as I went about getting ready, and so I did. He didn’t move much, but I hoped he felt safe. About ten minutes later, Justine came into the office, looked at us briefly, and said: “He’s dead.” Then she turned away and started to get herself ready for the party. “I don’t want to think about it right now,” she said a little later. It kind of shocked me, because here I was HOLDING the poor thing, and I hadn’t even realized he’d died. But she knew. Again, it reminded me of that night. It was so important to me to be there for Vernon’s final breath…and then it was there, and then it was gone, and all I could do was bolt out of there, thinking: “He’s gone. I’m done. I need to get away. Now I want to be with the kids and make sure they are alright.” These superimposed flashes with every grief we go through, no matter how significant is clearly something I’ll need to get used to.

There is a lot of the threat of death again on my radar at the moment. Friends’ parents struggling with complications in hospitals, unexpected tears, more stories of cancer, blah blah… Benson is so small in comparison, but it brushes against the same emotions, doesn’t it? The practice of grieving, the acceptance of loss. This has got to be the most annoying part of being human, which is generally great! The most annoying part of loving, which also is generally great.

Justine showed up to my dad’s 75th birthday party last night with a small cardboard box, clearly containing Benson. She didn’t show his body, but as she worked the party, she did point to the box in her hands, Sharpie-marked with an x-eyed smiley face and Benson’s name, lest it be confused for something else. Oh the horror! I remembered the best part of that last palliative period with my husband was that no one told me how to do it. I had complete freedom in doing things as I wished, I was allowed to be leader of my own story. And I could see today that Justine must have been paying attention after all. She told me call a specific list of people and invite them to my parent’s house at noon on Sunday. Those who could make the short notice made it. And it was perfect.

I can’t even explain the bittersweet emotion that filled the spaces between rolled-eye contact and giggles at the silliness of it all. But everyone had something to say about how Benson had touched them, and then Justine broke into her own pure eulogy about how he was the best pet ever and that he could never be replaced in her heart…and most importantly, that she would see him again one day perhaps.

It was so sweet, the whole thing. I was proud of my girl and her little playmates, who took turns flattening the earth with my dad’s garden trowel. We rent, so we knew it would be better to leave such a precious pet in my parent’s yard, which is paid off. Watching Justine take over the funeral, guest list and heart-shaped memorial rock in place, made me realize she was going to be ok. She’s going to keep dealing with death in her life, big ones, little ones…they all hurt, but they all have a specific honor that can be found, and watching my 8-year old walk in the pure confidence of what-to-do-next made me feel more secure in my own life. I know its just a hamster, but through our relationship with him, I know Justine will be alright.

My personal contribution at the funeral: Benson taught me more about tenacity than anyone—just keep at that wheel, all night if you have to. And also; there is ALWAYS an escape, just keep at it and you’ll find it. 🙂

For digital safekeeping, I’ve collected some of Benson’s moments on this Instagram tag:#bensonhamster.

PS it was so strange being in this space with our little community and family, and then remembering my own kitten, Mr Boots, who I still long for sometimes…and how he was found under this very deck a zillion years ago. The SAME place, there has got to be some poetry in that, at the very least.