Ode to Critters

“I am 18 years old. Can I PLEASE have a bunny?”

Emma had begged for a bunny for a decade. “NO! NO! NO!” What was the purpose of a bunny as a pet? She would play with it for a week and then tire of it, and I would be stuck with trying to get rid of a nasty bunny and its stinky cage when she left for college.

But, an 18-year-old is different from a 10-year-old:

“It will be all your responsibility.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You will buy it all of its food with your own money.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I will not clean the cage.”

“Yes ma’am.”

After the pinkie promises, I caved. Jessie found a cute Dutch Bunny in Auburn. A War Eagle bunny. Jessie hid it in the dorm on the night before she brought it to Dothan. Her name was Ruby. I didn’t expect to hate her, but I didn’t expect to like her, either. However, that nose was pretty cute. 

To quote J.K. Rowling, “All was well.”

Except that Phillip had some Christmas money burning up his pocket. Now, evidently, Phillip needed a guinea pig:

“It will be all your responsibility.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You will buy it all of its food with your own money.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I will not clean the cage.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Abby took him to Pets R Us. He found a black guinea pig with a white stripe on his face and a perfect little French mustache. His name was Pierre.

They had such happy little lives. Emma and Phillip would let them out of their cages to frolic together in the playroom. (I must have misplaced my spine.) Biscuit was certain we had all lost our minds. We kept the critters in the playroom behind closed doors on a table out of Biscuit’s reach.

“All was well.” 

Until one dark and gloomy Wednesday night about a week later. I was helping with youth supper at church when I received a text from Abby: “Biscuit killed Pierre.” I uttered some mild swear words under my breath (I was at church!) and called Abby. 

Apparently the attack was premeditated. Biscuit watched us leave for church (Abby was in her room, so maybe Biscuit thought she went, too). She discovered the door to the playroom at least cracked. Pierre’s cage was on Granny’s Hoosier cabinet. Biscuit jumped up on a nearby chair, leapt towards the cabinet, and knocked the cage to the floor. The cage door flew open! Pierre squealed a terrified squeal! He ran for his short life! Biscuit snatched the rodent and snapped his neck.

Abby heard the racket and knew EXACTLY what had happened. She hurried downstairs with hopes of saving his life. Alas, Biscuit was standing over the broken Pierre, looking guilty . . . and yet proud.

I told Abby to leave the body for Chuck. “It’s a man’s job to kill the bugs, and a Daddy’s job to bury the pets.”

Back at church, I showed Abby’s text to my friend sitting next to me. And her son. And his friend. And Emma. And all the other moms. Soon, everyone on the youth floor—except Phillip—knew of the homicide.

There are things you instinctively know when you find out the baby is a boy. You know you will genuinely grieve when he doesn’t make the Team or when the Team loses the Big Game. You know you will pretend to grieve when Miss Priss Who Thinks She’s All That breaks up with him. You never imagine when you see the tally on the ultrasound that you will one day have to be The One to tell The Boy that The Dog murdered The Guinea Pig.

But I did. And I did. And I promised my sadder, wiser, now worldlier son that Daddy and I would buy him a Second Guinea Pig.  

Although he could never replace Pierre in our hearts, the next night, Chuck and Phillip returned to Pets R Us to purchase another guinea pig. Phillip named him Hardison, after a favorite character on a tv show. The cashier at the store told them that there is a two-week return policy on animals. If the animal died of natural causes, we need only to return the body for an exchange . . . .

We all made sure the door to the playroom stayed tightly shut. 

Again, “All was well.”

Until Hardison seemed lethargic. As the days progressed, he got stiller and stiller and stiller. Until he quit moving all together.

The moment Hardison ceased breathing, I was at a funeral with 89-year-old Aunt Betty for her first cousin that I don’t remember ever having met. It was on a Saturday. Chuck was at the office. The kids were all at home. Phillip came upstairs to find his sisters, craddling his Second Dead Guinea Pig, who had died in his arms. They didn’t know what to do. They texted me at the funeral. (I only checked my phone because we had spoken to everybody and were sitting in silence waiting for the service to begin. I PROMISE!) I told them to call Their Daddy.

We had been googling about lethargy in guinea pigs. We discovered a parvo-like illness that is passed around in pet stores.

Emma immediately began to fret about Ruby. She thought she noticed some lethargy. She texted me—still at the funeral—that she was concerned that Ruby (a RABBIT!) was not pooping. Emma said her tummy was swollen and hard. Weary, I texted back, “THEN SQUEEZE HER!”

That afternoon, after the funeral of the cousin I didn’t know, they all three took Phillip and Hardison’s corpse back to Pets R Us with the receipt and came home with the Third Guinea Pig in as many weeks. Meet Trip. 

By now, Ruby really did seem a little lethargic.

Emma was an editor for her school yearbook. The yearbook staff went to a local photographer to have pictures taken. They could take fun things with them for their photos. Emma took Ruby. But, she just didn’t seem herself. She died later that afternoon. She is forever memorialized in the 2012 edition of the Northview High School Spectrum.

The day Ruby died was sad. A guinea pig is a rodent, but a rabbit is a mammal. There is a kinship with a rabbit. Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail, and Peter were rabbits. The Easter bunny is a rabbit. Pooh’s friend, Rabbit, is a rabbit.  Emma cried, and I sighed, and Chuck disposed of the body.

Trip was living on borrowed time. We waited. And checked his breathing frequently.

On the Saturday of Disciple Now weekend, two weeks to the day of the death of Hardison, the seniors came to our house for lunch. They were briefed on the dire situation. In hushed whispers, they asked, “Is he dead yet?” Chuck offered to give him a shot of insulin to hasten the dying. I wasn’t sure if that was morbid or kind, but I didn’t let him. Trip finally died. And Chuck disposed of the body.

The whole Critter Episode took place over the course of only about a month.

After the cages were cloroxed and Emma’s wounds had healed, we found another Dutch bunny at a different pet store. Her name is Cas, and she lives a happy, hoppy life to this day. She has a cute lime green leash and an Instagram account. Phillip’s guinea pig need had been sufficiently met. He likes to watch his turtle, Poseidon, splash around in his tank. Abby, not to be left out, has a betta fish named Bailey that she won in a vicious game of Dirty Santa. (She stole him from Bailey.) Biscuit suspiciously tolerates the current arrangement. 

All is well. (Knock wood.)

Sittin'

As I’m prone to do, I spent most of the month of July at the lake. This year, all I did was sit.

I sat on the old vinyl couch on the porch and delighted in a Chilton County peach, entertained by diligent redheaded woodpeckers and Biscuit as she barked and barked and barked at whatever critter she had cornered up underneath the house.

I sat on the swing--but did not swing--and talked on the phone to Starla and Angie and Jordan and Aunt Jo. Cell service goes in and out when the swing goes back and forth and the clock on the phone changes from Slow Time to Fast Time (Central to Eastern) and back again.

I sat at the kitchen table with the laptop and recorded one notebook of Mama King’s treasured minutia--every single day of 1961, 1962, 1963, and 1964.

I sat beside My Favorite Son, oftentimes with his head (or his feet) in my lap, and read his summer reading out loud to him. (I know, I know, but it was Cold Sassy Tree, for Heaven’s sake, not Lord of the Frickin’ Flies. Besides, the seconds are TICK-KING!)

I sat on the back of the jet ski for long, late afternoon rides with that same Favorite Son. (He drives calmly when I’m on the back, not like an idiot as he does when Brett’s on the back.)

I sat on my huge sectional sofa piled high with Conners and Youngbloods for an inside cookout on a dark and soggy Fourth of July.

I sat another time on that sofa and watched The Andy Griffith Show and quoted every word uttered by Ernest T. Bass in “Mountain Wedding.” And, bless my soul, my babies can quote every word, too. (“I’m a little mean, but I make up for it by being REAL healthy!”)

I sat on the Ramsey’s porch and ate the pig that Henry cooked and drank a bottled Coke and llaauugghheedd.

I sat outside on a lawn chair on the night of July 6^th and swatted mosquitoes and hummed “Stars and Stripes Forever,” once it stopped raining long enough for the Annual Lake Friends Firework Extravaganza and Near-Death Experience.

I sat in the lake and pulled those ugly water weeds near the lake’s edge that have consumed our beach. It is a losing battle, but I’m not surrendering. (Remember the Alamo!)

 I sat at the game table and lost Every Stinkin’ Time to my daughters at Rummikub. 

  

I sat in my brand-new Cracker Barrel rocker and listened to the rain and caught up in my book journal and confessed to my prayer journal.

I sat cross-legged on the floor and listened to my almost-2-year-old friend Wiley as his vocabulary exploded. (“Op’n dat door!” “Abby’s house!” “Hi, Bliblup!” “’weet Bunny, Emmy!” “’mere, Bi’cuit!”)

I sat in and gripped the edges of the passenger seat when The New Driver and I went to Dothan or Eufaula to run errands.

I sat backwards in the front of David’s boat as he cheerfully tubed his 3 long-legged, ponytailed, squealing daughters, and then I saw his demeanor change when the 2 young men climbed on the tube for their turn. 

“May I have your permission?” he asked me.

I said, “Have a good time.”

The orthopedic surgeon had glee in his eyes as he unleashed his pent up testosterone on my sunburned son and his black buddy.

“You were never in any mortal danger,” he told them afterwards.

I sat in a folding chair at a folding table covered with a plastic red-and-white-checked tablecloth at the Byrd family reunion and cherished Isom and Lovey’s descendants and tasted the love that they brought to the potluck.

I sat again on the old vinyl sofa on the porch and made Angie laugh (that’s easy) and touched her to make sure she was really there and smiled because she was.

I sat at the picnic table and tapped my toes to some priceless picking of “Pow’r in the Blood,” while surrounded by Beloveds who helped us celebrate Chuck’s 50 years, and pondered the blessing of loving them.

I sat on my king-sized bed and snuggled all 3 of my teenagers at bedtime and shared the same old stories about when they were little. They still let me stroke their hair and kiss the tops of their heads.

I sat in the bathtub and sipped my sweet tea and took my own sweet time.

I sat on the worn-out dock and marveled at the sunset, thankful to have Biscuit to protect me from the geese.

Occasionally, I stood up. But only to move to a different seat.

A Perfect Pedicure, Mon

Briana gives pedicures. She talks all the time about pedicures. She points out how much you need a pedicure and hounds you until you sit still and let her paint your toenails. She does a great job. She is diligent and tedious in her chosen art.

In the summer of 2012, our church youth group took its biennial trip to Ocho Rios, Jamaica, to lead VBS for several local churches. In the mornings, we worked hard crafting about the Bible story and singing about Jesus and loving on delightfully accented children and sweating. In the evenings, we had a group Bible study and prepared for the following day and tried to get to bed at a decent hour. In the afternoons, we played. We went to market one afternoon and climbed a waterfall on another. Most afternoons, we stayed at our beachfront condo and swam or sunned or snorkeled.

In anticipation of this priceless time, I ran by Walgreen’s before I left Dothan to buy some new fingernail polish. I planned to surrender to Briana’s pleadings and get her to paint my toenails as I rested by the pool. I pondered over the perfect color and purchased a shade of orange that was fun and summery, yet mature. Walgreen’s was having a sale: buy 2, get one free. I picked up a hot pink and a glittery silver to give to Briana as payment for my pedicure.

On Monday afternoon, after VBS and lunch and probably a little nap, I met Briana at the pool.

“Which color do you want me to use?”

“The orange one.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! I chose it especially for this moment in time. It is sophisticated and whimsical, like I am.”

“I think you want the pink.”
"I don't want the pink."
"Yes, you do."

I took a deep breath. It’s only toes.

“I meant to say that I want the pink.”

“I thought so.”

I leaned back in my plastic lounge chair and closed my eyes. I felt the sun on my face and smelled the breeze from the sea. I heard our FBC kids laugh and play in the pool. Briana petted me for about a half an hour. In Jamaica. I was as happy as I’ve ever been in my life.

“Okay. I’m done.”

I looked up to inspect her work. Eight of my toenails were hot pink. The middle toe on each foot was shiny silver. I looked like The Rainbow Fish.

I squealed and giggled like a school girl. The toenail artist had worked her magic.

Later in the summer, my girls and I visited my aunt in the nursing home. She has had a stroke and does not talk much. It is difficult—even for a talker—to keep up a one-sided conversation for very long. Grasping for something to say, I looked down at my toenails. My aunt has always liked pretty nails, so I showed them to her and told her my story. She laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.

I don’t think there is a moral or a lesson to this story. I’m not even sure there’s a point or a punch line. But when I need to think of a happy place or just need a chuckle, I can close my eyes and picture those sparkly silver toenails and hear the master say, “I think you want the pink.”