Dead Pet Diaries: Willie

when i was in about the sixth grade, my friend shannon spread the news that her hamster had babies, free to good home (unless they were cannibalized first). my sister mary and i went to her house and picked out our new pets from the litter. her hamster, willamena, was golden all over; mine, milliscent, was golden with a white stripe around her midsection. willie and millie.

they were sisters, we were sisters. they snuck out of their cage, later in life we would sneak out of our windows. they fought, we fought. they squealed and peed on each other; we drew the line there. after several violent squabbles, we decided to separate them. one would get the cage for a few days, the other a nice homey bucket, and then they would switch.

two notes. after a few months, my sister lost all interest in her hamster and they both became my pets. after about a year, i bought an untrained, mean but sweet dachshund named rusty.

okay, so i was not always nice to my hamsters. i would set up a pillow on the couch, stand far away, and gently toss them to see if i could hit it. it was like a beanbag toss, but with hamsters. rusty, a hound, knew these creatures were there, and i guess i may have occasionally teased him with them. maybe.

this is where the story takes a most unfortunate turn. it was willie's turn to house the bucket and i must have left it in a not so good place, because when i called for rusty, he came trotting in the kitchen, head high, fresh kill in mouth. what happened next was a whirlwind... i screamed, he dropped her, my sister kathy beat the crap out of the dog, we drove to the vet's office (on a saturday) because willie was not yet dead. but she was going to die. we sat in my sister's subaru and i cried and cried, holding poor, wet, bloody willamena in my hands. where was mary? who knows. she didn't give a shit about her hamster.

i believe this was my first real encounter with grief over loss of life. i sat in the bathtub and cried. i remember this, muttering small prayers like, "why? why did willie have to die?" not to mention, i felt just a teensy bit guilty over the teasing. i placed willie in a shoebox. next to her, i laid a rose and a wallet sized school portrait of me - short ugly hair, plaid shirt, dr. spock eyebrows in full effect. i dug a hole near a pine tree in our backyard and invited my family to come to her memorial service. i was DEAD serious. so we gathered at her graveside, kathy, my mother, my father, and where was mary, the deceased's rightful owner? she arrived just a few minutes late - she and her friend chrissy from down the street took some extra time to dress in all black and find veils to wear over their faces. i started to pay my respects, and everyone was giggling at my sister and her friend, and probably at the absurdity of my seriousness, and i threw the box down and stormed off with some dramatic expression of juvenile frustration. something along the lines of a tearful, "this is serious, nobody cares!" or "i hate you all!" or... something.

i forgave rusty, but not the rest of them. a few weeks later, my dad drew a sketch of rusty and put it on the fridge. "wanted for hamster homicide." the story is still told with feigned sympathy and suppressed giggles. but behind my old house on ranchette lane, buried next to a pine tree, lies a thom mccann box that once held saddle shoes. willie's skeleton, a dead rose, and a yellowing school photo of me lurk there like ghosts. none of us really ever had a chance.

as for the fate of millie and rusty... another time.