Does death follow me?

Maybe I am just strong enough to carry its burden?

Last summer Patsy, my hound mix, found a nest of newborn rabbits. I honestly believe she didn't intend harm, but her fixation on digging them out from beneath the bushes was too violent. I noticed a few minutes too late, as she was pawing one of the tiny kits. It seemed to me that her expression was confused and even a tiny bit worried. Unfortunately, the baby rabbits were very, very young, and only 2 or 3 hadn't succumbed to stress or injury. A few minutes later, only 1.

It was a Sunday, and I did my best trying to find a wildlife rehabilitator who accepted rabbits. Turns out they are notoriously difficult to help because of their fragile nature. And this was an injured newborn. The tiny baby I tried my best to save isn't the main subject of this post, though. It's the attempt to save him.

He was a fighter, that little one. I followed all the expert advice trying to reunite him with his mom and not to touch him. But every time I did all that, he was cold and still when I checked on him. I even heated up a cast iron skillet before carefully wrapping it in towels to keep him warm. Because the experts all said not to touch him.

And I listened.

Even though the moments when he rallied, when I thought maybe it would be worth the 4-hour drive the next day to the closest rehabilitator, those moments happened after I tossed all the advice out the window and just held him. At one point he curled up, the most at peace when he was wrapped in the warmth of my cradled hands than in every other well-intentioned nest I tried to make him. I like to think that he faded away then. When he at least felt warm and safe. When darkness greeted him like gentle fur in his mother's nest, and not as a coldness suffered alone.

I've tried writing about this a few times.

Because it just seems like I'm always too fucking late. I'm there to offer comfort at the very end, at best. At worst, I bear witness after a life passes from this world to the next. All I can do is offer what honor my recognition of its death might bestow.

If you've found me on Medium you may have read about the starlings. About Dickie. About Scarlet.

I thought maybe my intimacy with death wasn't a curse. Maybe it was my burden to bear. Because not everyone can be there at the end, when we all deserve comfort and the face of someone we love. I told myself I was one of the few strong enough and compassionate enough to serve a sacred purpose.

I don't think so anymore. I think it might have been the other way all along.

Maybe the universe, or God, or whatever greater force guides our lives was building my strength. It was showing me the beauty and grace veiled beneath sorrow. Every little lost life was a face of compassion offered to me. If I can grieve the existence of some small creature barely here a moment, a fleeting memory of starling song or soft rabbit down, how can I possibly doubt the capacity of our world to love as deeply as we deem it indifferent?

And those are just the brief encounters. The bonds I've felt with all my animal family members, past and present, are a thousand times stronger.

Honestly, I've been very lucky. As many pets as I've shared my home with during my life, I've only had to see the end for a small number. Most of those in my adulthood. But there was one special little soul that needed my help when I was in middle school, maybe 12 or 13 years old.

PJ was cream and tan colored and small for a rat. I bought her as a baby, along with Bandit, whose black fur around her face looked like a ski mask to me. Even though Bandit was twice her size, PJ was the brave one. And clever. She made the plans, and Bandit provided the muscle. I literally watched her discover the weak point in their cage lid and then step back for Bandit to muscle through an opening.

One time they escaped their cage and were loose in the attic. I'll have to write the whole story some other time, but just when I had given up any hope of ever seeing them again, I saw their little whiskers twitching in my direction from where they had been cuddled up on the spare bed. I swear they sensed my distress and only emerged out of concern for why I was so panicked.

One day there was a party at the house. At the time, PJ and Bandit had to have their cage in the basement. Some of my brother's teenage friends thought it would be funny to blow smoke in it. That was probably the first time in my life I felt true betrayal and shock at the capacity for cruelty in others. Rats have extremely sensitive respiratory systems, but they didn't know that.

Bandit didn't make it.

Little PJ, brave fighter she was, clearly only hung by a thread. I was furious at everyone—my mom for making me keep their cage in the basement, my brother and his friends for obvious reasons, and myself for trusting in their safety. But I put it aside and devoted my every thought and action to nursing PJ back from death. Just like the baby rabbit, I held PJ close.

But then, I didn't have to worry about letting her go. I held PJ in my hands for hours. I fed her water with a spoon. Blew gently on her face to stimulate her to take deep breaths of fresh air. Interesting fact about rats. I didn't know this at the time, but that action probably did save her life. Researchers have documented rats licking and biting at the mouths of fellow rats suffering from shock after injury or illness. The stimulation often "woke" the rat in danger and induced respiration. Almost like rat CPR.

PJ miraculously recovered, though she faced a future that would no longer include her closest companion. I made her a promise that night that I would never leave her, and anytime she wanted out of her cage for companionship, she would have it. Her cage did not go back down in the basement ever again. She was barely in it anyways after her brush with death. Our relationship did in fact grow stronger. She was such a special little rat.

When the time did come, she was almost 4 and a half years old. Most rats are lucky to see 3 years. Afterwards, at the vet's office, my mom cried more than me. The vet said she was one of the hardest animals he'd had to ease out of their suffering.

So that was the first "real" goodbye I had to say to a pet. The first time I learned that the unconditional love looking back at me from eyes just before they left this world was a promise. A promise that love endures even when the world seems at its darkest. I don't think I really realized PJ was the first to teach me that until writing it out today.

Now I think I have to save sharing how this all ties into Nana's story for a part 2.