Remembering Cali & Andrew

December, 2015

I have this amazing print of a guinea pig flying with a balloon - or rather the balloon flying with a guinea pig - that I found online from a wonderful illustrator. The artist, Lesley DeSantis, had created a painting that looked just like our Cali, who died last November. I love looking at it, remembering Cali, and also enjoying the innocent joy that comes from a painting such as this.

The image inspires so many questions - why is the guinea pig flying? How did he/she attach to the balloon? Where is he/she going? A whimsical painting that inspires questions is the greatest thing.

And as I remember Cali, I remember my brave husband when she died. I had just gotten home from a particularly rough day with my grandfather. With his Alzheimer's, he has good days and bad, and this one was one of the worst. Naturally, he had it on a day when Jake and I wanted to take him to look at senior living homes. Upon my return, I wanted to sit next to Andrew on the couch and cuddle Cali, as was our evening ritual prior to my making dinner. But as I passed Cali's cage, I realized she was in an odd position and looked to be laying in the middle of the bottom portion, which wasn't normal for her. The way I looked at her and said, "Cali?" must have warned Andrew that something was wrong, because he jumped up and like a parent scolding a child, he ordered, "Go into the kitchen!" which I did, but only momentarily. I had to go back and see if she was okay.

She was not. Andrew met me on my way back into the room and held me close. I know we exchanged words - something short like, "Is she?" and perhaps a nod or a yes. And then I remember losing it. Holding on to Andrew while trying to drop to my knees - scream-crying and begging in a sob for time to reverse or for the truth to be ignored...but knowing all the while it couldn't be.

Looking back to that night, while it's easy to remember my hysterics, it's much easier to remember Andrew's reaction. As was with the death of our rat Tweek, he tried to protect me from it and keep me from seeing the dead animal. (Though really, losing the companionship of a pet is much harder than seeing a dead body, but I understand his sentiment. And it's one that I can only appreciate months later after the fact.)

Andrew and the situation remind me of lyrics from one of my favorite songs (Serenity, by Godsmack):

Protect the ones who hold you
Cradling your inner child

I think that Andrew grew closer to Cali than he did our rats; after all, we did have her longer. He'll deny it, but I know he liked her. I have some great photos of the two of them together. He did like to annoy her - poking her with hay in her bum - but they had some great moments too. Giving her a bath, petting her, brushing her hair... He may have done all of this to please me, but I don't think so. I think he did these things out of love and caring for our pet.

I miss her a lot, and hope that she's in pet heaven eating hay and chewing on random things that need chewing on. Her little guinea pig purrs were the best, and even though I was allergic to her, I wouldn't trade our time together for anything.