I walked quietly into their room this morning, a plate of grapes, yogurt, bread, and their favorite peanut butter ratty treats in my hand. I opened the cage and Kali came racing over. She loves her ratty treats. But Tossie stayed curled in her bed, breathing fast. She’s sleeping, I thought, and petted her back gently with the back of my hand, murmuring love sounds to her. She kept her head down, and I could hear a strange clicking sound. “Tossie,” I whispered, but she didn’t look up. I googled rat illnesses and it didn’t look good. I called our vet, and he said to bring her in immediately. When I went back upstairs, she looked up at me through half-closed eyes. Her fur was ruffled.
I lifted her and her bed gently into the travel cage, wrapped it all in a thick blanket, and took her into the heated car. “We love you, Tossie,” I kept whispering as I drove the 4 blocks to the vet’s. “Just leave her here. We’ll see her when we get to it.”
“No, I’m going to stay,” I said. “May I keep her out here with me in the waiting room until she can be seen?”
“We have no idea how long it’s going to be.”
“That’s all right. I’m staying.”
It is amazing to me that I can love a small animal so much, especially when that animal is a rat, traditionally loathed and feared. But Tossie? Ah, you just have to KNOW Tossie to understand what I’m saying. She’s a dumbo rat, with round ears that sit high on her head. Her sparkly black eyes and twitchy whiskers are always moving. She loves to crawl onto your sleeve and nibble on your ear, if you let her get that close, which I usually don’t. I break out in horrible hives everywhere she touches me, but still I let her, putting cream on the welts when I’m done. One day I held her in between my two hands and her eyes bulged way out, and her whiskers stuck straight out from her body. I thought she was having a seizure. No, my daughter explained, that was just super bruxing, which meant she was really, REALLY happy. She loved my Reiki hands.
But she loves Kari more. Kari arrived back home on Dec. 20th, and they got 7 glorious days together, full of kisses and pets and hugs.
I had to leave Tossie at the vets, on oxygen and antibiotics. I don’t know what her prognosis is. We’ll know more later this afternoon. But as I went back to say good-bye, they told me I couldn’t lift the lid off the glass cage to pet her good-bye as that would disrupt the much-needed oxygen flow. So I had to whisper through the air tubes to her. “We all love you, Tossie. Just know that. Kari loves you. Remember that. We’re always with you.”
Brushing the tears away, I headed out the door.
I will not lie - my heart hurts. I have a hard time not crying. I’m crying as I’m typing this. The tears are hot. They are love tears. I decided long ago to open myself up totally to love, which also meant that I was opening myself up to the pain when the object of my love had to go away. But I decided that I would rather throw myself off the cliff, arms outstretched, screaming the whole way, enjoying the ride, even knowing I would crash into a billion pieces when I hit the ground, than stay on the edge of the cliff, never daring to love. It is so worth it to me, even as I sit here crying with pre-anticipated loss of our dear Tossie, Thanatos, which means “Death” in Greek.
She may be just fine. We don’t know. I believe in miracles. She is strong. Life is strong. So it’s interesting that I feel this much, and she is still alive. Is that the sweet pain of love? Perhaps it doesn’t matter if the object of our affections is alive or not, because love just is. I love you, Tossie.