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For those of you who haven't heard, our hamster, Lovie, died a few weeks ago. She was pretty old for a hamster, being between a year and a half and two years old.
I don't cope well when any of our animals pass away. I was a mess when our other hamster, Rasputin, died at the age of two and a half, I was pretty wrecked when we lost the first of our finches, and I can't even image what it will be like when one of our cats or the Tiny Dinosaur passes away.
Lisa and I are the same: We both let our animals become like family to us. We worry about them as much as we would children. We were willing to pay the $500 it took to save Samantha's life as a kitten, despite the fact the doctor told us she only had a fifty per cent chance of survival.
There are many people in this world who treat their pets like possessions, and have no qualms with having them put down when they become inconvenient. People who turn their cats and rabbits out at the side of the road because it's too much bother to keep them around. There was a person in Calgary who moved away and left his parrot behind in his apartment. His parrot!
A pet is a commitment, people. When you take a life into your home -- any life -- you are making a commitment to its health and happiness. You are saying 'I know this animal may be inconvenient for me at times. I know I may have to rearrange my busy schedule just so I can feed it and change its litter box. I know it's going to pee on the floor, or bark at the mailman or sharpen its claws on my couch. I didn't buy it because it matches my carpet or because all young urban professionals have one these days, but because I want its companionship and love. And I want to give the same thing back to it.'
Anyway. Lisa couldn't sleep last night, and sat up late writing poetry. She penned the work below, and gave me permission to publish it here. When I read it, I damn near cried.
I know I'm a wuss. Shut up.
(Untitled)
The smell of black marker
on your candy-dish coffin
your name, your age, we love you
towel lining turned
flowers in
for you to lay on.
A peanut for your journey
to the garbage
of the Catholic church
next door.
- Over in the forum:
- Penguins and jet planes
Forgotten Stars
Mom Rating: 1 out of 5. Mom gets pretty emotional, as much as she tries to hide it. Hey, every spring she put back the little tombstones in the garden where we buried our childhood gerbils.
On Survivor: Kel? KEL? Lisa and I both had him pegged for the big winner, as did the Vegas odds makers. Of course, the thing that we didn't factor into our predictions is the level of paranoia these people are exhibiting.
See, they've all seen the original show, so they are automatically mistrusting the motivations of their companions. He put on breakfast before we woke up? He must be trying to manipulate us! He stuck something in his mouth and chewed it? He must have smuggled in some food that he is hiding from us!
Still
hungry for Chinese?
Do
you get sick often?
Take me home, big fella
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