Hawkeye

When I gave Hawkeye her medication earlier and tried to get her to drink some water, she was making a strange sound. She still seemed alert, though, so I was hopeful.

Just now, I found her dead. I'm really upset and have been crying for about the last half-hour since I found her and just cradling her body in my arms. I feel like it's my fault. Like maybe if I had gotten her to a vet earlier she could have pulled through, like if I had sexed that male guinea pig before putting him in the cage maybe none of this would have happened. Honestly, though, I have no way of knowing unless I have a necropsy done, and we can't afford to do that. I'm not sure I want to know anyway. It's possible she had cancer, though, as opposed to an infection. Or maybe I really did just treat it too late...

Anyway, I really loved her, and I'm devastated to have lost her. She was the most beautiful guinea pig. Her fur was like it was made out of gold, the way it sparkled, and she was so incredibly soft. She was the sweetest little guinea pig you could ever hope for. Some of her fur stuck up funny on the top of her back like a little shark fin. I was hoping so hard that she was going to pull through.

With all the animals I have and have had in my life, along with rehabbing, I deal with death a lot. It seems either I simply accept it gracefully--if the animal dies quietly of old age, like I think Sheska just did when she passed away a few weeks ago--and sometimes, when the animal was young and I feel like they "weren't supposed to die," I feel like it breaks a little something inside of me that I can't ever get back. Hawkeye fits in there. My heart breaks just a little bit for her, and I think of the fact that I will never see her again and it just...hurts. A lot. I miss her already.

That is not to say I don't think I can handle becoming a vet--there is a difference between patients and family, and I can easily switch into a clinical mode where I can accept nearly all death gracefully, but it's just...one of those things about living with such an empathy for and bond with other species. My heart breaks just a little tiny bit for every tragedy I see, every animal loved and suddenly gone, every time I think of the cruelty and injustice towards other species. It pushes me forward, towards a better world for other species, and makes me want to try harder to prevent suffering, but it also makes things difficult and complex for me at times. Sometimes I feel so alone, even though I know I'm not, and sometimes I feel as though nothing I do can ever stop any of the suffering, even though I certainly know that's not true.

Rest in peace, Hawkeye. I won't ever forget you, and I will miss you. The thought of never seeing you again is so horrible to me. You were so sweet, so beautiful, and I still remember holding you the day you were born and being amazed at how you sparkled in the light already, even though you were so tiny. I am sorry I couldn't save you. I hope you know I tried, and that I loved you and hated to see you feeling so sick and tired.

I don't forget any of my pets, no matter how small, no matter how many hundreds I have, no matter how short a time they spend with me, because they are all my family.

Hawkeye

When I gave Hawkeye her medication earlier and tried to get her to drink some water, she was making a strange sound. She still seemed alert, though, so I was hopeful.

Just now, I found her dead. I'm really upset and have been crying for about the last half-hour since I found her and just cradling her body in my arms. I feel like it's my fault. Like maybe if I had gotten her to a vet earlier she could have pulled through, like if I had sexed that male guinea pig before putting him in the cage maybe none of this would have happened. Honestly, though, I have no way of knowing unless I have a necropsy done, and we can't afford to do that. I'm not sure I want to know anyway. It's possible she had cancer, though, as opposed to an infection. Or maybe I really did just treat it too late...

Anyway, I really loved her, and I'm devastated to have lost her. She was the most beautiful guinea pig. Her fur was like it was made out of gold, the way it sparkled, and she was so incredibly soft. She was the sweetest little guinea pig you could ever hope for. Some of her fur stuck up funny on the top of her back like a little shark fin. I was hoping so hard that she was going to pull through.

With all the animals I have and have had in my life, along with rehabbing, I deal with death a lot. It seems either I simply accept it gracefully--if the animal dies quietly of old age, like I think Sheska just did when she passed away a few weeks ago--and sometimes, when the animal was young and I feel like they "weren't supposed to die," I feel like it breaks a little something inside of me that I can't ever get back. Hawkeye fits in there. My heart breaks just a little bit for her, and I think of the fact that I will never see her again and it just...hurts. A lot. I miss her already.

That is not to say I don't think I can handle becoming a vet--there is a difference between patients and family, and I can easily switch into a clinical mode where I can accept nearly all death gracefully, but it's just...one of those things about living with such an empathy for and bond with other species. My heart breaks just a little tiny bit for every tragedy I see, every animal loved and suddenly gone, every time I think of the cruelty and injustice towards other species. It pushes me forward, towards a better world for other species, and makes me want to try harder to prevent suffering, but it also makes things difficult and complex for me at times. Sometimes I feel so alone, even though I know I'm not, and sometimes I feel as though nothing I do can ever stop any of the suffering, even though I certainly know that's not true.

Rest in peace, Hawkeye. I won't ever forget you, and I will miss you. The thought of never seeing you again is so horrible to me. You were so sweet, so beautiful, and I still remember holding you the day you were born and being amazed at how you sparkled in the light already, even though you were so tiny. I am sorry I couldn't save you. I hope you know I tried, and that I loved you and hated to see you feeling so sick and tired.

I don't forget any of my pets, no matter how small, no matter how many hundreds I have, no matter how short a time they spend with me, because they are all my family.