As many of you might know already, a member of our little blogging community recently suffered a loss in his family. Our friend Night Writer, and his family, are grieving over the loss of their beloved cavy. (guinea pig, for you laymen) As adults, most of us can accept the inevitability of losing a pet a little better than our kids; but that's not to say it doesn't hurt us any less, or prevent us from grieving as well. I've lost some pets as an adult, and the tears came all too easy. Night Writer's loss got me to thinking about my first experience with the death of a pet.
I can't even remember how old I was at the time, but I do know I was in elementary school. Someone in our neighborhood was giving away kittens, and naturally I begged and pleaded with my parents to get one, and they ultimately relented. I named the cat Fluffy. I don't think we had it very long when, one sad morning, it slipped out of the house as my brother was leaving to go do his paper route. Later, when he was coming home, he found Fluffy run over and killed by a car. Well, we had a funeral service and buried Fluffy in the back yard. It was a long time before we had another pet.
I remember another incident from childhood as well. It was around Easter time, and my parents did the old buy some baby chicks for Easter routine. We got a kick out of them, and named them Huey and Louey. We had them for a few weeks, when one day I came home and they weren't around. My brothers and I asked what happened to them; whereupon my mom opened the oven and said there they are. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Turns out she had some pork chops cooking, and they had taken the chicks and given them to some farmer nearby. Thanks mom. Is a twisted and warped sense of humor genetic? I know which side of the family I get it from.