Passing of a Pet by Melissa L Vardy, MD 20/20

 

There are many situations in life that can make you feel uncomfortable. Farting during a job interview, for example or worse still, during sex. Here’s another one, bumping into an old friend and then congratulating them on their pregnancy, when in fact.......Well, we all know how that one goes.

Then there’s the old favourite, snogging a work colleague after a night of heavy drinking. Then, having to face them every bloody day at work until you manage to find another job. I have experienced all of these and more, but yesterday I found myself in an awkward situation entirely new to me.

At the time, I was on the 10.59 a.m. train from King's Cross to Stevenage. Two miserable children were sitting opposite, and a snotty woman in a red puffer jacket was next to me.  I could tell this ‘tutting woman’ didn't want to sit near me. I’m intuitive like that.  I sensed she was in a bad mood just by the way she sat down.  As for the children, well, they were mine and had good reason to be miserable.

This wasn’t a journey I’d been looking forward to, and being kettled in this hot, stuffy train wasn’t improving my mood any. It was so crowded that strangers were pressed up against each other and looked like they might snog at any moment, if they weren’t so agitated that was.

Impatiently, I waited for the train to pull out, now and then glancing over to see how my children were holding up.  The pair of them were sitting there silent with tears in their eyes and sadness in their hearts. It was all very ‘Dickens’.  I, on the other hand, felt more anxious than sad. Having to sit with a corpse on your lap will do that to you. Now, I realise straight away that sounds kind of bad, and I’ve gone from awkward to obscene in one sentence, so let me explain.

You see, two weeks previously, our hamster had died. Well, actually, Avril Lavigne, as she was regrettably named, died slightly before then. But for the first two days, I’d tried to convince myself that she was in fact hibernating. Then, for another day, I agonised over how I was going to tell Aaron and Esme, my kids. Luckily, in the end, I didn’t need to. On that very same day, they found out for themselves, which was fortunate, kind of.

They were devastated, of course, death was still new to them, for me, less so. It’s not that I’m a cold-hearted bitch incapable of loving a small rodent, far from it. It’s just that no sooner had ‘we’ got Avril than I found myself becoming a parent yet again. My children's cries of

“We’ll look after her, we p-r-o-m-i-s-e” flowed quickly into cries of.

“Mummy, I’m tired,”.

“Why don’t you just get the word mug tattooed on your forehead?” My husband had suggested. Yep, thanks for that.

Now, if you are fortunate enough not to know much about these creatures, then let me enlighten you. For starters, they smell, well, not so much them, more their cages, if you don’t clean them out regularly, that is. Obvious, really, it would be weird if they didn't. And have a guess who cleaned our hamster's cage out every week? Yep, you got it, me, me and me. Then there’s the noise. A hamster can run up to six miles a night in the wild.   And I’m pretty sure she ran that same distance on his wheel each night, that’s when she wasn’t gnawing on the metal bars trying to escape, I mean, who can blame her?

Now, to my next point. Whose room do you think the hamster lived in? Yep, me again. You see, Avril’s nocturnal noises had a propensity to keep my children awake. Whereas, obviously, for me, her racket was like whale music. You can see what I am getting at here, can’t you?

Finally, you know what hamsters don’t do? They don't live long; the average lifespan of a hamster is two years. In conclusion, hamsters make shit pets, Christ even rats live longer, and they can learn their name.

But still, I was genuinely upset when she died. I’d spent more time with Avril than anyone. Admittedly, most of that time was spent on my knees making elaborate treat-laden mazes. The ‘twist’ in my maze, though, was that the final exit was actually a dead end, leading directly back into her cage.  As you know, what else hamsters are fabulous at?  Escaping.  Honesty, I didn’t enjoy it, and sometimes I’d just let her have the run of the house for a few days.

In death as in life, it was the same; it was me that was left to organise the funeral.

Now you wouldn't know it to look at me, but I actually live in a council flat in Peckham, South London, and my flat, being on an estate, doesn't have a garden.  Oh, also, we are on the 5th floor, so having a garden would also be, well, weird and certainly unusual.

Eventually, we decided to travel to her mum's house in Stevenage for the burial; my mum's place didn’t have a garden either, but she did have a small allotment. This felt like the perfect resting place for Avril, after all, she’d always loved carrots.

As my place of work didn’t grant special leave for the pet funerals, it was a couple of weeks before we were able to make the journey. Until I’d had to store Avril's body at the back of the fridge. No, no, I know that sounds horrible, but she was in a box, her body wasn’t just lying there next to the Feta cheese. It was the only place she could think of that would work as a makeshift morgue. After a couple of days, however, her body was removed. I won't go into the reasons why.

I’d hoped to put Avril in my bag for the journey, but Aaron had said he was worried the body might be disturbed. Jesus, I thought, we’re not in an episode of Silent Bloody Witness. But still, he was upset, so I respected his wishes. I carefully wrapped Avril in tissue paper and placed her body in a Nokia phone box, which, if you are interested, makes an excellent coffin for a dead rodent, as well as a brilliant ‘sleeping quarters’ for a living one.

So, there I was, on the train, feeling extremely uneasy, convinced that the passengers could smell Avril's decomposing body. And I thought to myself, you know what, I'd rather be back there, farting my way through that job interview. But still the discomfort was brief, and less than two hours later we were at the allotments.

My mother was crying, of course; oh, she does love a good funeral. Next to her was my stepfather, towering over everyone and wearing his huge trench coat. Accompanying him were his Bible and his garden spade; it was all very apocalyptic. And opposite my parents were the kids and an overweight slobbering black Labrador. The dog belonged to my stepdad, you understand; it’s not like we just let some random dog rock up to the funeral.

Despite the weather, many hardy gardeners were still out, and our presence was attracting their attention. Turns out Avril's funeral was far more interesting than the harvesting of root vegetables, imagine that! Although huddled together in a circle and standing in the rain, we must have looked like some kind of strange religious sect performing a sacrifice.

Mrs Mad Bastard, as my mum called her, happened to be standing nearby, staring, weird as ever, with a pitchfork in one hand and a cigar in the other! A young couple in their twenties were also in earshot. I noticed both of them were wearing matching floral Wellington boots, and they had the audacity to stare at us.

By now, it was raining more heavily, and I just wanted to get the thing over with. But if I didn’t give Avril a proper send-off, I knew I’d regret it.  My children were looking at me expectantly, as was the dog, although it may have been that she just wanted to go home, and so I began. I started the ceremony by reading the goodbye note that my daughter had written. This was difficult, mostly because she’d written the letter in blue felt tip and cried as she’d done it. Esme's hot tears had washed away most of the words, and what remained were just some inky blue stains. In the end, I looked up to the heavens and ad-libbed. If she asked, I’d say the words came directly from God.  You learn to lie well, and quickly when you have kids.

After the reading, I recited the Lord's Prayer, at least the bits I could remember.  However, I could tell by the expressions on my children's faces that the service was inadequately short. It needed something more. That’s when my mum suggested we sing, Hallelujah’ by Leonard Cohen, Christ knows why. Still, no one would be complaining it was too short after this little number, and I did know all the words.  So, I began to sing, and this time everyone joined in, even, surprisingly, Mrs Mad Bastard. Finally, the coffin was placed in the ground, covered with peaty soil, and Avril was laid to rest.

She was buried just near the strawberry patch. A huge paving slab was placed on top of the grave to make sure the foxes didn’t dig her up. Esme inserted the obligatory lolly stick cross in the ground, and everyone agreed it was a lovely service.  I reassured the kids that Avril was now in Hamster Heaven. I mean, I can’t imagine how any hamster could end up in hell, can you?

Then it was time to go back to the house for tea, cake, and a packet of orange Chewits. Nothing eases the pain of loss for a child like chewy sweets.

It was my stepdad who suggested we sing a song to cheer us up, and I agreed. Esme walked slowly through the allotments, deep in thought once more. Her mournful steps gradually quickened, and soon they’d turned into a skip, and then she sang, and she sang loudly,

“I kissed a girl, and I liked it; I liked it. No, I didn’t even know her name.”

It was an unusual song for a funeral, but then it was an unusual funeral.

As my stepfather yelled for Betty to hurry up, I couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before the kids started pestering me for another Avril, and if they did, would I weaken once again?

Bio

Melissa Vardy is an up-and-coming standup comedian and spoken word artist who has performed at several venues across London. She also writes short stories and is currently attempting to write her first novel. She describes herself as desperately dyslexic, fiercely left wing, openly bisexual and proudly South London.