Rats!

Rats!

I just buried a rat. It was a bit anticlimactic. I had originally envisioned a small circle of tearful family members, some heartfelt words, maybe even a few flowers plucked from elsewhere in the yard. Instead, it was dark, dare I say chilly for a Florida March, and I was alone, armed with a shovel and a flashlight. I picked a nice spot underneath the fiddlewood tree on a little hill.

As I thrust the shovel into the dirt, I thought of how sweet this tree smelled when in bloom and how pathetic it looked now, completely bare in the pale moon light. Another strike of shovel on earth and I thought how twisted it was that the pet rat, kept inside some sort of cage or enclosed room his entire life was now being carefully placed in a scenic location to be one with nature. The third and fourth strokes were uneventful and the fifth struck a rock. I shifted my endeavor a little closer toward the fiddlewood and hit roots. A little to the left was fairly nice and sandy so the excavation commenced. Ssssshhhhunk. Flpfff. Schlunck. Flpfff. I began thinking less and less of the passing of poor little Snowball Flufferbutters and more and more about my neighbors as I heard hushed voices. “I think that’s Mary.” “What are they doing out there?” “Oh, don’t worry. It’s Mary.” I wondered, is that what a serial killer hears when disposing of bodies late at night in his yard? Then I made an unfortunate connection: I am, after all, the serial killer in my family. Outside of fish, only one pet has escaped my pet-grim-reaper grasp. When pets ail in my home, I’m the one who takes them to be fixed and I am also the one who takes them to be put down. I bring them in; I take them out. Maybe “serial killer” is a bit harsh. Mercy killings? Of course. Still…

I kept digging until I hit more roots. I tried digging around them, threw my jacket over a branch as the sweat rolled down my back. Finally, in a fit of frustration, I gave up and chopped through them, noting how guilty I would feel later on if the fiddlewood starting waning due to my abuse. As I placed poor Snowball in his white cardboard box into a hole entirely too big for him, I looked around unsure whether I was sad to be doing this alone or relieved to be doing it away from the eyes of my children. He was the first of two rats I will bury in my life. We do not plan to have more. During the coming week, there will undoubtedly be some sort of memorial for “the best rat my husband ever knew.” Perhaps the remaining household member of the muridae Ninja Stripe will get more frequent trips around the house and a cleaner condo. Maybe, just maybe the kids will feel driven to care for the pets themselves in an effort to trick me into bringing a new one into our home. Perhaps not. Poor Snowball. R.I.P.