In Loving Memory of My Little Ahri

Before this Thursday, I never understood why people say, "I'm sorry" in response to another person's berevement. What are you sorry for? You didn't do anything. So, I suppose it's with cruel irony that life allowed me to understand. 

Thursday

I wasn't expecting Ahri to die, that morning when I drove her to the animal hospital. Last Saturday, the vet discovered a stone in Ahri's urethra and suggested she be brought in for a follow-up appointment to get it flushed out. I hadn't objected, because Ahri had been showing signs of discomfort and unhappiness, even pain, the weeks prior. She had lost weight and couldn't gain it back. I wanted to get that stone out probably as much as she did.

So, I left her at the animal hospital for the day and went back to my workday. Fully expecting to pick her up and continue living life as usual.

At 4:30, I picked her up and drove home, talking to her during the drive like I usually do. Ahri was unresponsive, but I chalked it up to grumpiness. She never did enjoy going to see the doctor.

I started to worry when we got home. She simply padded sluggishly out of her carrier and plopped onto the floor. She didn't move from that spot and later refused her dinner, even though I brought her her favourite veggies. For an energetic little piggy who eats everything in sight and screams at me if I don't feed her on time, this was entirely unusual. 

Ahri refused to eat, drink, or move for the next two hours. About an hour and a half in, she wouldn't or couldn't even swallow the water I was syringe-feeding her. With each passing minute, I grew more and more worried until it got to the point that I started monitoring her breathing. Some instinctual part in the back of my brain already knew though I wouldn't have admitted my fear aloud at the time.

I stayed with Ahri the entire time, lying stomach-down on the carpet with her nestled in the crook of my elbow. I rubbed comforting strokes down her back and gave her little head numerous gentle kisses. After a while I decided to put her back into her hutch, thinking that the familiar environment and smells would comfort her.

She died a few minutes later. I can't erase the image of her little body seizing up, as if in pain. For a flicker of a second, I thought she was getting up and moving, that she would be okay. Then she went still. I could see she was no longer breathing.

After

I'm not religious. I don't know, with absolute certainty like some people, that there is a heaven or some sort of afterlife. Sometimes I think I believe there is. Sometimes I entertain the possibility. But I don't feel, with comforting sureness, that there is. 

My thoughts on life and death and spirituality never seemed that significant until now. Now, I find myself grappling with the reality that my sweet, sassy little fur baby was here and now isn't here. My brain can't seem to understand it. Now, I don't know if I should feel relieved she is in a better place and no longer in pain or if I should be angry that she suddenly no longer exists. Now, I don't know where my baby went. 

It sounds bizarre, but part of what bothers me about being so permanently separated from her is that I can't make her comfortable, wherever she is. I can't fly up to Heaven and arrange some cloud-pillows for her to make sure she has a comfortable bed to sleep on. I can't ask God or whoever is in charge of the universe to take care of her. And knowing that kills me; it kills me that I can't take care of her anymore.

And then there is the guilt. It's a strange, irrational sort of guilt. When I drove her to the hospital on Thursday morning, it was done out of the intention to take care of her and make sure she could be in good health. After she passed, I felt like I was the one who killed her. My brain keeps swimming with these painful 'what-if's'. What if I hadn't let the doctor give her anesthesia (guinea pigs don't respond well to anesthesia)? What if I hadn't decided to go through with that appointment? Maybe Ahri would be alive now and Evie wouldn't be alone if I hadn't been so stupid and risked Ahri's life.

She wasn't just a guinea pig

Ahri and her sister Evie came into my life during a time when they needed me and I needed them. I had just gone through a painful breakup and graduated university with all my plans dashed to hell. I had had to move back home because I had nowhere else to go. At the time, I thought I had the worst luck in the world, but perhaps I was simply needed here. These two little nuggets needed someone to love them, and I had so much love to give. 

Through taking care of them, I became a better person. More responsible. Less selfish. More giving. They brought me so much joy and comfort in times of difficulty; many days, it was the simple, small act of holding them in my lap that got me through. Ahri and Evie both helped me get through a breakup, unemployment, family issues, quarantine, and many depressive episodes. Playing with them, feeding them, and even cleaning up after them became regular parts of my routine that I relied on and enjoyed. Caring for them wasn't a burden at all. It was easy when I love(d) them so much.

For such a small, furry little animal, Ahri had a big personality. She took up an even bigger space in my heart. 

She loved apples, blueberries, cucumbers, watermelon, and bell peppers. But really, she ate almost everything (except green beans and zucchini). 

She loved to talk and sing and would chatter at me to let me know she was done with being cuddled. She always knew what time dinner was and would wheek loudly if I delivered her dinner a minute late. 

She had a lot of energy; running around the living room carpet and burrowing under towels and between little nooks was her favourite sport. She'd leave little stinky presents under the towels for me to find later. 

She loved butt cuddles and having her sides rubbed. Sometimes, if I stroked her in the right spot, she'll stretch out her little white legs in my lap. Her "little white socks", I called them. They were the softest thing I'd ever felt.

In the summer when it got too hot, she'd flop over on the sock-wrapped icepack I gave her to keep cool.

My favourite thing about her was how she'd do a little huff if she was content and relaxed.

Wherever Ahri is, I hope I'll go one day, too. For the time being, I'll simply have to bear the burden of missing her.

My little baby nugget: It was a privilege to be your human for the last two years. I did my best to make sure you had everything you needed and were happy and loved. Wherever you are, know that PigMum loves you so much. She and Evie miss you every day.