Writing & Reporting
Writing & Reporting
Pete’s passing
John Swinconeck
Journal Tribune, January 2009
“All creatures great and small … The Lord God made them all.”
– Cecil F. Alexander
I hadn’t felt too badly about the passing of Pete. I felt somber and sad, but despite seeing his face almost every workday for the last two years, it wasn’t all that bad.
But today I keenly missed Pete’s beady dark eyes, his furry hands, his stripes.
Pete came to the newsroom in 2007 after the passing of Holden, my Betta fish that I kept on my desk. Several years ago, I wrote in this space that Holden was a perfect pet because, of all the strange creatures I see day in and day out at this office, he was the quietest.
Holden was laid to rest one frigid winter day at the Saco River. His burial at sea meant he was finally at an eternal rest with the natural world inhabited by his species’ ancestors. Or he was eaten by a sea gull. The point is, Holden’s passing meant there was an empty fishbowl-shaped area in the office that my coworkers wanted filled. It seemed that no sooner had Holden gone belly-up then a replacement pet was clamored for.
So Kristen, our associate editor, and I went to a pet store seeking a new animal. Kristen wanted a rat, probably because she hates the world and rats spread bubonic plague. Or she thought they were cuddly. Whatever, you’d have to ask her. In any case, a rat would grow too large to keep in a small cage. Plus, they freak people out.
So we settled on the diminutive Siberian dwarf hamster that was arbitrarily named Pete (I suspect that Pete was likely female, however). Of the two hamsters in the pet store, Pete seemed the least bitey when handled. So we brought him to the office so that our boss, Drew, could have a mild freak-out. It probably would have been prudent to get permission before getting an office pet capable of running up the legs of customers who come to the office to place an obituary.
Pete was mainly Kristen’s pet. I already owned birds, and didn’t want to push my luck with my landlord by adding another pet. So the little fluffball would usually go home with her on the weekends. I was given the nickname of dead-beat dad, because I rarely brought him home and didn’t do much in terms of feeding or watering him. But I think Pete was OK with that. I say that because Pete was one angry little bastard. His hobbies included running on his wheel and biting any finger within range. We learned very quickly that Pete was a creature whose crocodilian biting power grossly outsized his three-inch body. He also enjoyed batting at any intrusion with his paws.
So I kept my distance from Pete, and he kept his from me. Every once in a while, he would roll about the office in a plastic ball. This was a bad idea, seeing as how a vicious tiny rodent rolling full tilt at you in your work place could be upsetting. But nobody ever complained.
One day the other week, Kristen, looking sad, brought Pete into work, and said she was afraid he was sick. Pete was in his cage, curled into a ball, breathing shallowly. He didn’t try to bite me when I touched him with my finger, and the lack of razor sharp incisors trying to slice into my flesh was a certain clue that something was wrong. Two hours later, Pete was gone.
Several coworkers signed a farewell message on the box into which we placed his body (until then that box held business cards–so now I’m out both a business card box and a Siberian dwarf hamster), and then we took him to the vet. This is a sad routine I’ve become accustomed to. I’ve never owned a yard, so whenever a parakeet, mouse or other animal passed on, I’d bring the body to the vet that contracts with an animal funeral home.
After Kristen and I dropped off Pete at Biddeford Animal Hospital, we toasted his memory over Thai food, and I felt better. I hadn’t thought about Pete too much since, until yesterday, when I got a sympathy card from the vet’s office, signed by about a dozen members of the staff. I felt very touched by this gesture.
There was mixed reaction to Pete’s passing at work. Some people seemed ambivalent, others were genuinely sad. I can say, without irony or sarcasm, that I’m grateful that we had him. With every pet, great and small, comes a learning experience about life, love and death. When we wonder what the world looks like from the point of view of a dog, a cat, a turtle, or a cockatiel, we’re expanding our mind just a little bit, if only briefly. And when they die, it helps us learn how to cope with loss and grief to a certain degree.
So long, Pete. You were a good friend, and you didn’t even know it.
— Contact John Swinconeck at johnswin@gwi.net