Then our shared “trip down memory lane” began drawing to a close as it brought us to the current moment, with her lying beside me in bed. The moment it ended, I felt a genuine completion of a life fully lived. I opened my eyes and looked at her. Just then, she sat upright like a little sphinx and seemed to be staring intently at something I couldn’t see. With that, she let out a unique sound, almost like a “call of the wild,” and she was gone. I was in awe. I knew I would miss her tremendously, but I was amazed at what had just taken place. I was convinced it was more than a coincidence that she had left at the exact moment the experience had ended.
I was equally convinced—and still am—that this is something we can
all
experience during the final moments of a loved one’s physical life. If it doesn’t happen spontaneously, I feel it is something we can initiate with our thoughts … and it can become a final farewell, a way of sending our loved ones off to the spirit world filled with the memories of a life well lived.
Of course, not all endings happen so peacefully. That was the only time such an event occurred spontaneously in my own experience, so I now do my best to initiate a similar experience, if not during the final moments of a loved one’s life, then shortly after their leaving. Often, the final moments of a life are filled with panicked decision-making and frantic desperation. This has certainly been the case with many of my own departed companions.
During the final moments of Jonathan’s life, as I begged him to stay, I recall telling him that he
couldn’t
die because April was waiting at home for him; she was
counting on him
. She was his closest rat companion, and the two were inseparable. When they snuggled up together, Jonathan often put his arm around her, and those who witnessed this repeatedly declared, “Aw, look—they’re in love!” I knew how much she’d miss him. How much we’d all miss him.
A
PRIL WAS BEAUTIFUL
. Her shiny black coat was soft and silky. She had a fluffy white underbelly with matching white socks; an incredibly sweet face; and soft, gentle eyes. Her official name was April, but her nickname had become Tinkerbell, or Tinker for short, because she only had half a tail (no one at the pound knew what had happened to the other half), and whenever she ran, her little half-tail bobbed and wagged behind her. Somehow it looked like it should have a little bell hanging from it. Hence, the name Tinkerbell.
I recall the day she entered our lives. As soon as we got her home, she began kissing me with her soft, velvety little rat tongue, as if I was her best friend. She seemed so grateful and happy to finally have a home. Before long, she spent every night snuggled up against me just like a miniature cat or dog. Every morning, she would shower my entire face with kisses, and then she’d head over to Jameth to do the same. Every chance she got, she’d nurture the nearest rat or person, and the other rats would literally line up for a grooming session from April. It was as if she were everyone’s mother.
“I had no idea rats were so beautiful,” said a friend upon meeting April for the first time.
“Wow—they’re gorgeous,” said another, again upon being introduced to April. And the story was the same whenever someone met April, always the rat ambassador. (Of course, we would have loved her no matter
what
she looked like, but her beauty definitely helped to break the ice among people who were unfamiliar with rats.) Several friends just didn’t consider a visit to our home complete without a shower of kisses, April-style. No matter who they were, young or old, male or female, they were full of delightful giggles as sweet April kissed their face, whispered in their ear, tickled their neck, and groomed their hair.
When rats are happy, they make a delightful chattering sound with their teeth. It’s the rat equivalent of a wagging dog tail or a purring cat. (Technically, it’s called “bruxing,” but I call it “chattering” because it’s cuter and that’s what it sounds like.) Sometimes a rat’s chatter is so enthusiastic that their entire face wiggles. Well, April was the queen of chatter. All we had to do was gently scoop her into our hands, or softly tell her how wonderful she was, and she’d chatter away. She was a joy and a true gift in our lives. Right from the start, I knew I would have a hard time letting her go when she eventually reached the end of her life. She was already quite old for a rat when we adopted her. The short lifespan of rats is always the hard part … but always worth it for the love they give in that short time.
It seemed April always had some sort of health crisis going on. One morning, she awoke unable to walk, and I thought it was the beginning of the end. I was nearly in tears. However, after a chiropractic adjustment from a holistic vet, she was back to normal. Another time, she choked on some food, and I tearfully said my final good-byes, thinking it was the end. Again, she snapped out of it. Twice she developed benign mammary tumors, and twice she recovered. She overcame infections, old injuries, and days when she just didn’t feel well. Each time, I was faced with her mortality. Always, she recovered.
Looking back, I realize that all those little false alarms were preparing me for the real thing. It was just too much to deal with losing a being that special all at once. So I had a lot of practice over several years. In fact, she had an exceptionally long life for a rat (as do many of the rats here at the Rat Refuge, who enjoy a very healthy diet; but, of course, it’s never long
enough
). Eventually, April became a little old lady, just as sweet as ever. She had trouble getting to some of her favorite places around the house, so I put up ramps to assist her. She got around a little more slowly, and with a lot more effort, but she never lost her zest for life.
Several months before Christmas, I knew that the end was near. The false alarms were becoming more frequent, and she was clearly aging. Jameth and I were planning to go to my parents’ house for Christmas, and to bring April and the other rats along, as we had done the previous year. April was my parents’ favorite “grandrat” and they were really looking forward to including her in the celebration. They always asked about her and had photos of her all over their house.
We were all looking forward to spending one more Christmas with our precious April, our sweet little Tinkerbell. So I kept telling her, “Grandma and Grandpa are counting on seeing you at Christmas. Don’t let them down! We’re all looking forward to spending Christmas with you, Tinkerbell. It just wouldn’t be the same without you.” I then reminded her that Gram’s (my mom’s) birthday was the day after Christmas, and what a great gift it would be to have her there to help celebrate. And every time I told her this, she would look me in the eye and listen like she really understood.
Much to everyone’s delight (and surprise), April
did
spend Christmas in my arms, at my parents’ house, surrounded by the people who loved her most. She was old and weak, and her life force was slipping away, but she was with us. Throughout the day, I noticed that her breathing would periodically stop for several seconds too long; then she would lift her head, and with whatever effort she could muster up, she would literally force herself to start breathing again. I realized she was keeping herself alive for
me
. I had wanted so much to spend one more Christmas with her, and she had gone the extra mile to grant me that wish. She no longer had the strength to walk or groom herself or even eat without assistance, but she was there.
I had always prayed that April would die happy, literally chattering right to the end. Now, here was this weak, dying rat in my arms, and I felt as if I had put too much pressure on her to stick around. So I tearfully wished her a Merry Christmas, thanked her, and told her I would let her go now, that I was sorry I had asked her to stay long after her body could keep up. But she looked up at me as if she had made up her mind. She was staying for Christmas. All of Christmas. And stay she did. That night, she curled up in bed with Jameth and me, and we spent one more night with our little angel. Once more, we told her how much we loved her and said our tearful good-byes.
The next morning, I awoke to find that April was still with us. She was barely breathing, but she was still there. As if fulfilling a promise, April was there for my mom’s birthday, the day after Christmas. She was there for the cake, the singing, and the presents. Then, to finish off the day, the whole family watched two rental movies,
Dr. Dolittle
and
Jack
. April was still cuddled in my arms. And she was chattering all the while.
Fate must have guided me to choose that second movie,
Jack
, as I didn’t even know what it was about. None of us did. We had never even heard of it. I had just grabbed it as an afterthought on the way to the front counter of the video store, where we had gone (along with April) to rent
Dr. Dolittle
. Soon I realized
why
I had felt guided to rent that particular movie. It was about a boy named Jack who had been born with a disorder that caused him to age four times as fast as normal. So, as a young boy, he had the body of a grown man, and by the time he graduated from high school, he was a very old man.
As the character Jack in the movie was nearing the end of his life, having enjoyed it to the hilt despite the accelerated aging process, I looked down at April, my little Tinkerbell, cradled in my arms. I realized it was the same with animals, except that most of them age even faster than that. As the movie (and Jack’s life) was coming to a close, April’s contented chattering finally stopped as she drifted off to sleep for the last time. No more tearful good-byes. No more begging her to stay. Just acceptance and peace. I had been prepared many times and in many ways for this moment, and now I could handle it. And as a final answer to my prayers, she had indeed been chattering right to the end. Of course, it doesn’t always happen this way, but at least this once, it did.
Like Jack, little April had made the most of her short time with us, and I suddenly realized how precious—how truly precious—all life is, no matter how long, how short, how big, or how small.
I also realized for the first time that perhaps I’d been selfish in always putting so much pressure on my beloved companions to stay with me. As difficult as it is to let them go, I swore that I would never again beg an animal to stay. So, from that point on, I committed to approach the final hours of each animal’s life with only their
own
well-being in mind. I began checking in with them each step of the way, asking if they were suffering, asking if they needed assistance in leaving—or if they preferred to stay. In the early days, I always called an animal communicator to ask these questions. As time went on and I learned to really listen, I asked the questions directly. Over time, I learned volumes about letting go.
Of course, I wanted
all
of them to die peacefully in my arms, in familiar surroundings, in their own time, but some were truly suffering and needed outside assistance. Then there were those who died suddenly and unexpectedly, before anything could even be done. I feel it’s important to reiterate here that no matter
where
their final days or hours are spent, they
know
we love them and are doing the best we can for them. As long as we come from a place of love and compassion, we have no reason to feel guilty after the fact,
regardless of outcome
. We are usually far more in tune with our beloved companions than we realize, and they understand that we want what’s best for them. They also understand that we have a hard time letting them go.
For every peaceful passing I experienced along the way, there were countless “learning experiences”—times when things didn’t end so smoothly, when I vowed to do things differently the next time around. Times when, in hindsight, all of the warning signs seemed so clear. Times when I felt that I should have spent more time with an animal than I did. Times when suffering seemed to be a direct result of decisions I had made. These were moments that haunted me long afterward.
Time and again, whenever a beloved animal passed, I absolutely tormented myself day and night with “what ifs,” “if onlys,” and absolute certainty that I was the sole reason they had suffered and died; and that if I had made different decisions, somehow, things would have been better. With each new loss, Jameth lovingly asked, “Okay, how is
this
one your fault?” Of course, he knew it wasn’t. I think those final moments of suffering become frozen in our minds, and long after an animal has passed, we’re still living in those moments. We need to remind ourselves that the animals
aren’t.
They’ve moved on and are doing absolutely fine. Whether we feel that we should have assisted them in leaving but didn’t, or we
did
assist them in leaving and now regret it, they truly understand how difficult it was—and still is—for us. And they certainly aren’t upset with us. They are in a place of unconditional love and understanding. When it’s their time to go, it’s their time. All the rest is just “details.”
O
VER TIME AS
I
EXPERIENCED MORE LOSSES
, I came to accept the eventual inevitability of death. Rather than fighting and begging the animals to stay, I tried to focus solely on
their
needs. I told them that it was okay to go if it was their time, and that they had nothing to fear. I told them that they were welcome to return if they ever chose to come back, but there was no pressure. I’ve finally learned that part of loving someone is wanting whatever is best for
them
, rather than focusing on our own wants and needs. This has perhaps been the hardest lesson of all.