To the Break of Angel, Pt. II: Long Live the Squeak
Disclaimer: This is my goodbye to my guinea pig. An animal. And whether you find it odd or that I’m merely being overly sentimental over the life of a simple creature, I will not apologize for it.
I find myself closer to tragic happenings these days, it seems. I try to refrain from posting up on any forms of social media for people or friends to say a prayer for a loved one of mine. If you do that, all power to you. I genuinely mean that. Perhaps your circle of friends is a lot more caring and / or loving than mine. Apart from that, I try not to do that because, in my idiot head, it’s still a means of drawing attention to oneself. It’s for a good reason, I understand; yet in my experiences when I would see others post things of this nature up, there were so many people who would forget about the person that it’s about and instead make it all revolve around the poster’s emotions and well-being. To me, that defeats the purpose. If you are reaching out to the world to wish a little hope on the fate of a loved one, I find it...wrong when it becomes all about you. Again, I’m sure I’m wrong, but that’s the problem with me: I happen to be the only person who can sway my opinion on various topics. I’m a hard-headed individual and that’s a comedic tragedy in its own right. My self-hate and tough love introspection are words for another day.
To condense the last few weeks, a family member of mine was in the hospital and had to undergo surgery that could’ve gone one of two ways. You have no idea how grateful I am that it went to the best possible way in a most difficult solution. Bad was taken with very good. Nevertheless, that’s the mantra I live by: the lining is silver, and that’s always good enough. A friend of mine has been having health problems. Thankfully it hasn’t been anything too serious, yet I do notice the changes. Once 20/20 vision now requires the need for glasses; foods that were once eaten liberally are now taken in moderation or not at all; and sometimes if I look at time frames of the past it makes me realize how much things have physically changed - some for the better, others not so much. Even myself (and I hate talking about myself, in brutal honesty; this ridiculous caricature of me that I dangle on a string for social media to see is little more than a character...the real me I try to keep locked away because I’m so damn exhausted of being diminished when someone I allow to hold it shatter it and leave), yes myself, have I been at the end of a needle drawing blood from my veins and into various tubes to check if all is well in the vessel that is I. Sorry, I’m getting to be too wordy; I’ll try to be succinct. The point is, a series of happenings lately have made my life come under fire. Still...the end of the day would reveal things turning out for the better.
This morning has changed that.
Let me preface: people tend to view an animal’s life in one of three ways: overly-attached, meaningless in the grand spectrum of things, or there. The last one I’ll elaborate on: by “there” I mean that they show compassion for the creature, they’ll nourish them, and they may acknowledge their presence three to five times a day, but that’s about it. The main interesting point of this last viewpoint is that once the animal has passed, it can lead to feelings aforementioned. Now that the pet has departed will they react in such a big way that it seems like they are only feigning emotion because there’s no more time left, or they bury the animal and go buy a new one thus beginning the cycle once again. So where do I fall on this board?
Sir Squeaks-a-Lot. Yes, that was his name. I’ll admit, he had a slew of names until I finally settled on this one. I coined it on account of his ever-present squeaking he would do for everything. By everything, I mean just that. He would serve as my furry motion-activated alarm clock, as when I would stir in the slightest in bed there he would be squeaking at me until I woke up and acknowledged him. Usually with a blade or two of timothy hay. The moment he was done with his favorite bits of food, he would literally push his bowl over the edge of his elevated platform and squeak that he was out of food. That was him pretty much ringing the bell and I would be the room service getting him another serving. Water was the same situation. The moment the well went dry, I would hear him continuously spin the metal ball that distributes water. When the spinning noise failed to garner a reaction, he would revert back to the time-tested squeak with unyielding results. Quite the nuisance, you think? You’d only be scratching the surface.
Yet, when I would return home from a long day at work, that same squeak could be heard throughout the house. Only this time would the squeak be one of joy that I was there with him now. Or maybe because he tipped over his food bowl and needed it to be refilled. Silver lining.
The funniest thing about it all? I adopted him by way of saying “sure, why not?” Instead of this pig being advertised and sold to a stranger on Craigslist, I answered the call when a loved one could no longer take care of them and they would be moving out of the city. So I took him into my care when he was nothing more than a little fur ball that in years to come would grow exponentially. He would be so terrified of me when I would approach his cage and tremble under his micro stairway when I would just up to him and say hello. After a few months, the pig would approach the edge of the cage and lean on wall lining so that my finger could shake hands with his tiny paw. I would feed him a very small portion of carrots and watch him lose his mind as he loved those things. It would make me sorrowful when I have to limit his carrot intake so as to watch out for his health, but he pretty much squeaked in sheer joy when he would hear the crinkle of the bag that contained the baby carrots. Kind of backfired on me, I’ll admit, as he would become ecstatic whenever ANY bag would crinkle. Including but certainly not limited to my fast food bags, the packaging that water bottles come in, even the wrapping of certain sticks of gum. What can I say, he had an acute sense of hearing.
Then there was the time when he was the only living thing I had to talk to. Don’t get me wrong, I have an amazing family and great friends. Yet, and I’m retreading on familiar territory here, but when my engagement fell apart, I found myself completely on my own for the first time in roughly four or five years. After my marriage (yes, you read that right) ended (and yes, despite her claims, I blame myself for it ending), I found myself in another relationship that reached those heights of something more. After she left, my brother was married and living life with his wife, my best friend was in a serious relationship, and my parents have their own things to take care of. It wasn’t as though I was not important; I just know that people have their own lives to live and asking anyone to stop for me is selfish. (Ah, I hate talking about myself...that took a lot to write all that...)
People are people, and I still love them. If they could spare a few moments for me, I appreciated it to no end. Yet at the end of the day, everyone would return to their lives. In times before I discovered happiness in being with someone, I would probably play some video games, watch TV or a flick, write, and then sleep. But I’m different now, and you can’t go back to the way things were. I was on my own...
Until that familiar squeak would break the silence. All the time and without fail. I hate to sound loony, but whatever. The pig became a comfort. While people may argue that animal companionship is no substitute for human companionship and interaction, it’s true only to a certain degree. He was a constant for four years, and while I could not hold conversations with him it made all the difference to coming home to complete emptiness. All I had to do was whistle and he would squeak in return. I know this probably sounds idiotic but I’ve been an idiot for years, so maybe it makes sense only to me. I’m at peace with that. A human can illustrate love, but it can sour in such little time and can even be illustrated as if it were authentic but all the while be nothing more than the motions laced in deceit. With ol’ Sir Squeaks-a-Lot, I knew he was happy to see me, and he would show it when he would allow no one else to pet him but me. Others would whistle to him, but he would only squeak back to me. Instead of squirming all over the place when anyone would try to hold him, he would be completely still when I would clip his nails because he trusted me. Yes, he couldn’t speak to me, but his actions over time showed that he and I were a pair of happy-go-lucky goofs. When I first adopted him, I had no idea how much I would come to need him. He got me through my days of self-pity and would-be self-destructive behavior.
And now he’s gone.
This morning, I got up to his cage and see him motionless. I keep thinking of the signs. His lack of appetite. His almost lethargic movement. His lack of squeaks every so often. I had him wrapped up in one of my old shirts the day previous, and he would look at me and squeak very softly. I had him wrapped up as it was cold that day and I just wanted to do what I could to keep him warm. As I readied myself for work just last night, I placed him in his freshly-cleaned cage whilst still in his makeshift blanket and I told him I would be right back. While he was breathing for the last time, I was at work. I wasn’t there. I keep telling myself as to how could I have known, but maybe it’s just one of those things. You want to be able to say goodbye to every loved one. It’s that whole black thought of not wanting to be alone in the end. I run my hand for one last over his head and I keep hoping he’ll wake up. That would be so wonderful. I’d scold him for bringing me to this level of despair and give him a carrot. I would hear that squeak one more time. It’s funny; the one thing that would drive me up the wall is the thing I miss the most.
I give him a quiet burial, and cover him with some smooth round rocks. As I write this, I find myself looking at his empty cage. Empty, once again.
I apologize in advance. I don’t know how to end this. I want to say something witty and uplifting, but I can’t. Hey, perhaps that’s it. I find ways to turn everything into a story. And now I can’t. I just miss my friend.
Long live the Squeak. Thank you.