Animal Farm.

I think I’m depressed over The Weet’s death.

Yesterday I wrapped him carefully in several sheets of paper towel (his favourite thing to shred) and, using a Sharpie, wrote his name and some important details on the shroud. Coffee dug a deep hole in the garden and we buried him alongside the finches who met their untimely demise not so long ago. We both said a few kind words about him, and then covered him up with loose soil. And that’s a hamster funeral.

Weetie was part of my daily routine. Every single day I’d talk to him – drawing him out of his self-constructed volcano of Carefresh with the sound of my voice – and almost every day he’d happily hop onto my hand so I could carry him around the living room in the morning. He’d climb up my arm and sit on my shoulder for a while, or make his way to the top of my head, and sometimes I’d place him gently on the window ledge so he could look out at the birds. Then I’d return him to his own turf and refill his food and water and for the rest of the day I’d randomly say hello to him or poke him a bit.

As much as he seemed to like my company, he never stopped attacking other people. I’m a sucker for loyalty like that.

One of the many, many, many things I love about Coffee is that he never mocked me for my love of The Weet. He never fully understood it, I suspect, but he never made it seem silly for me to adore a hamster. When I emailed him at work to tell him that Weetie seemed unwell, and asked him what to do, he advised me to hold him and gently pet his head and keep him warm – which I did – and when I later told him that I had taken Weet to the vet he didn’t bat an eye. He didn’t find it remotely strange that I’d pay $30 to have him euthanized, nor that I wanted to bury Weet in the yard. What I love about my husband is that he understands that animals have value – not the price tag attached to them at the store ($8 for the Weet, I believe) – and that a hamster deserves as much caring and compassion as any other animal. Someday, perhaps, he’ll write an entry about his rats.

We both try hard to let our pets live as normal a life as possible in captivity. We try to allow them to live instinctually with improvements from us to help enhance longevity. Our dogs, as I’ve mentioned, are fed based on the BARF diet – which is as close to “hunting in the wild” as possible while still being safe. The birds are kept in an aviary, not a cage, to allow them room to fly and nest. Our small pets are given as much room as possible in the cages Coffee built. It’s not perfect, of course, because it’s not the same as living a completely free life. In some ways, though, it’s better. They’re protected from predators and traffic and all the other factors that can greatly shorten an animal’s life.

It seems somewhat dorky to be upset about a hamster’s death – knowing that most dwarves live only a year or two at best – and I don’t for one minute imagine that everyone reading will say, “My god, that poor woman! That poor hamster!”. I know it paints me as kind of sappy and emotional and a little over-attached to the little dude. That I’ve anthropomorphized our pets just a little too much. But I believe that animals have souls and personalities and understanding whether they’re a dog or a cat or a hamster – whether they’re my pet, your pet or living in the wild.

I’m glad that I discovered Weetie’s illness quickly and was able to end his suffering. I’m glad that my vet is so kind and understanding and, whether she felt it or not, treated Weetie with as much value as she would have with any other pet. She was gentle and kind and talked to him softly while checking him over and offered her clinical advice and her emotional advice. I am glad that Weetie’s ending was quick and not particularly dramatic – and I’m glad I got to say goodbye. But I’m still sad.

We – the collective we – bring animals into our lives for a myriad of reasons. We adopt dogs to keep us company or protect us or because we’ve always wanted someone to bring us the newspaper in the morning. We purchase goldfish to bring us tranquility. We bring birds home to brighten our lives with colour or song or quirky antics. Our cats warm our laps and chase string. Pets are our companions, our entertainment, our friends. There are people who adopt them for reasons that are less appropriate (to me), of course. The rest of us, however, welcome the little creatures into our lives and feel we have been enhanced by the experience. We talk about the progress we make in training our pets and how ridiculous their behaviour can be at times. We marvel at their personalities and their quirks and take pride in their accomplishments and growth. Long volumes have been written about the way animals change us.

Sometimes, though, when an animal dies, I feel a need to guard myself against the pain of loss. When my beloved pitbull (B-dog) was euthanized as a result of cancer, I swore I’d never adopt another dog. I was heartbroken. No more dogs. No more pets. And then, two weeks later, Daisy moved in to destroy the house. Less than a year later, Zooey arrived. I don’t know what I’d do without them (other than sleep more, do less laundry, and spend my nights alone sitting on the sofa with a baseball bat and a can of Mace). The sadness of loss seems overwhelming, but it also seems completely appropriate. They live shorter lives, and that’s hard, but it’s worth it to have them as friends for the time we’ve got together. Our own lives, as humans, is uncertain. We could live to be 90 or 35 or 20, but it doesn’t stop us from loving each other and forming relationships.

I know – without question – that I’ll adopt another dwarf hamster in the future. I will love that hamster, and I will mourn that hamster, and that big ‘circle of life’ will keep spinning. I’m a girl who has a lot of love to spread around.