Ode to Gemma

For my daughters 7th birthday we (being grossly unprepared in the present department ) made a last minute purchase of a Guinea Pig from the local PetSmart.
She was a 3 month old, smooth-coated, piebald with a wicked cowlick and a penchant for cilantro. Abby christened her "Gemma Jane"  and proudly displayed her on her dresser for many months.
Now, Guinea Pigs are not the most social of creatures, they are rodents that are prey to many, larger animals (humans include) and therefore, understandably shy. And although Gemma never asked to be picked up, she tolerated holding, brushing and the occasional bath without too much fuss.
I am not particularly interested in rodents, or any other small twitchy animals. No, give me something I can put in a chute, or through a saddle on. So, it came as a great surprise to me when I developed a soft spot for the little fur ball.
After a move to a new abode, Gemma's domicile ceased to be Abby's dresser and became the corner of the dining room - in the shade of dresser stuffed with old Halloween costumes, unfinished art projects and fuse beads. Although a caring "parent" my daughter now needed a gentle reminder to feed, water and check on our little "whistle pig" as my husband dubbed her.
Now, I tend to rise before my family, to run mountain trails in the dark of morning and Gemma and I developed a ritual.
After pouring coffee and letting the dogs out Gemma would emerge from her igloo and begin doing laps around her enclosure whistling her fool head off. This display of vim and vigor never ceased to amuse me and in return I would deposit green grass, or cilantro, in her little dish before heading on my way. My husband was equally fond of these antics - and protested that she needed a buddy for company, but in lieu of another pig would content himself by whistling back at her.
Anyway - I imagine you know where this is going, too many past tenths and all that.
This week, while Ali and the kids hit the road for a week in Utah, I stayed behind to log hours as a newbie fourth year on an equine surgery and lameness rotation.
During a brief conversation with my wandering spouse I head Abby say in the background "Tell mom to check on Gemma." "She's fine" I replied, but in that moment, as those words were leaving my mouth, I realized I hadn't actually heard from her lately and that the morning whistling had been ominously quiet.
Gemma was still alive, but clearly ill. Her fresh grass from that morning was untouched, a grave sign indeed. I took her to the veterinary teaching hospital, where we have board certified zoo medicine vets, and went over our options.
No many really - we could take radiographs and/or draw blood for a biochemistry profile, all of which would stress her greatly and perhaps worsen her condition. So, we did what is commonly done in this world of veterinary medicine - I was sent home with broad spectrum antibiotics and well wishes.
Gem went down hill, my force feeding, subcutaneous fluid administration and vitamin C shots did nothing to change the course of her illness.
The kids arrived home last night, Abby was devastated by the sad sight of her small girl, and guilt ridden that she hadn't spent much time with her lately.
This morning I woke early and went down to check again on the pig. She was gasping and limp but still with us. I forced more medicine down her throat and held her for a while before putting her back into her igloo.
Ali followed an hour later, saddened by her harsh breathing he held her in his arms while we drank coffee and planned our day.
In those minutes Gemma slipped quietly away, as unobtrusively as she had entered our life, so she was gone. The tiny little whistling light, despite our best efforts, sailed away.
I am inordinately sad - out of proportion really, with the event. I desperately wanted to make this one tiny, being better - and was unable to do so. And then there is my sobbing daughter, walking through that horrid, but unavoidable, first brush with mortality. I can hear my friend Nancy, a teacher and parent to two girls saying, "Parenting is really delivering disappointment in manageable doses."
And heartbreak, too, I would add.
So we make a box for Gemma, with her bell, and a sprig of spring lilac and some fresh grass. My husband digs an impressive hole, next to a bush of flowering purple iris - and we say goodbye. Everyone shares a story, or a thank you for Gemma, even the dogs give her a good snuffle (Abby interprets this as an affectionate gesture and I don't disabuse her of the notion.)
And so it goes. These funny little creatures come into our lives, and exit, teaching us such lessons along the way; lessons of compassion, and guilt and self recrimination and ultimately love -  in all its varied and unique forms. So thank you Gemma, for bringing joy, and your whistles, into our family, and for delivering valuable heartbreak to us all along the way.