But for the exemption of motherhood, I am not a person who seeks the responsibility of other living things (not an unselfish, Christlike characteristic, I know, but true). Guilt and pain, suffering and loss, are just not my favorite sensory experiences, so pets and plants (the more dependent the worse) are never things I am on the search for owning. I am always trying to send acquired houseplants to Fred's office (where they thrive), and out of my house (where they just survive). However, I live with others who have different wants and wishes, so I have both houseplants and pets in my life and in my home, and once ownership has been established, good stewardship becomes a driving force for me. With this perspective, I tried my best to care for this funny little animals for these past few years, and though it's hard for many things to get into this iron heart of mine, once in, it is almost impossible to get out, so even though I nicknamed him "The Rat" when he was chewing everything we owned, I loved him.
The night before he died, I went to "tuck him in" for the night (make sure his water was full, he had food in his dish, the computer lights near his cage were off etc.) and he seemed "odd"--nothing I could put my finger on, just not quite himself., maybe a little off balance. It did concern me for a few minutes, but because it seemed more perceived than seen, and because it was late, I went up to bed. The next morning, Abrahm, who has cared for him most diligently the past couple of years, found Maunzy laying on his side (abnormal posturing for him), alive, but unresponsive with his eyes wide open and unblinking. We gently picked him up, and softly stroked him, but his only response came from our voices. We would talk to him and he would blink or slightly move his front legs and then he would be still. It was obvious that there was nothing to be done and that he would leave us within just hours. Fred had left early for work without knowing his condition, but all of the children spent some time with him and said their goodbyes and left for school and work, leaving me alone with my grief.
I have a tremendous amount of faith in my Heavenly Father and have always had great confidence in his omnipotent power. I also understand the refining role that suffering can play in our lives and the need to turn things over to the Lord, when we've done all that we can do. I am no stranger to the wisdom that God's ways are not always our ways, but sometimes I understand that doctrine on more of a past and future level than a present one. So, after all of the medical help I had sought, and in my effort to be financially responsible to my family's stability, I had emotionally decided that I had done all I could do and I would turn the matter over to the Lord. I fasted for Maunzy and prayed for him every day for weeks and felt a peaceful certainty that Heavenly Father would take care of his problems. After all, suffering is for human learning, not for the animal kingdom, so there didn't seem to be a point, especially since he had only been a part of our lives for less than 6 of his expected 20 years. I will regretfully admit, that I was feeling quite surprised and a little juveniley angry with the way I felt my prayers had not been answered.
My visiting teachers had scheduled an appointment with me at 9:40 and I was holding Maunzy in my lap, feeling these emotions, and decided that this was no longer a good time for visitors. The phone was near me and I picked it up several times with the intention to call and cancel, but I couldn't get myself to dial the numbers and give voice to a good enough reason, without going into the circumstances and I didn't want to be that vulnerable. Of course, isn't that the whole purpose of visiting teaching or any of our roles as covenant members of the church--"to mourn with those who mourn, and comfort those who stand in need of comfort"?, but it just felt so freshly vulnerable and emotionally uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of that admittance of need.
So, I finally decided that I would let my visiting teachers come and just put on a good face for 30 minutes, but I struggled with getting control of my emotions, and didn't want to leave Maunzy, so when they got here my eyes were shiny and my hair was still in a morning tousle. I put my dying chinchilla in a makeshift bed, closed the room door and tried to act unruffled, but I could tell these sweet sisters knew something was not right. They have always been so inspired and directed, in a very quiet and patient way. I could see concern in their eyes and as one of them read the following quote, I couldn't stop the tears from streaming down my cheeks.
"As we learn of Jesus Christ and strive to become like Him, we will begin to feel His pure love in our lives and be prompted to love and serve others as He would. “Charity is having patience with someone who has let us down, It is resisting the impulse to become offended easily. It is accepting weaknesses and shortcomings. It is accepting people as they truly are. It is looking beyond physical appearances to attributes that will not dim through time. It is resisting the impulse to categorize others.” (Pres. Thomas S. Monson)
In those brief seconds, that it took for me to listen, an object lesson came fully into my mind. Chinchilla's most notable physical characteristic is their beautiful, soft fur. They also have no odor, which makes them appealing to hold and touch and interact with physically. Maunzy's coat has always been gorgeous, and though I'm not usually a touchy pet person, I have loved holding and petting him, but for the last few months, his sickness caused him to salivate excessively, and his entire front and paws would get damp and then matted. Our vet bathed him a few times and Fred and I bathed him, but it was a huge endeavor as chinchillas do not like to hold still and their fur is so thick that it took us an hour, every time, just to blow dry him (which is absolutely necessary), so he was becoming less appealing to hold and touch and our interactions were becoming more "removed". However, that morning as my children and I realized that he was dying and we could tell that he knew that we were there, that all vanished, and holding back our touch seemed unthinkable. In fact, it was precisely that recollection of our withdrawals, at least mine, that was causing me the most anguish. It brought a movie quote to my remembrance that said, "The love we hold back is the only pain that follows us."
Of course, at that point, I shared with my visiting teachers what was going on. They did what all good visiting teachers should do. They were there and they shared my burden. They comforted me and I desperately needed comforted. And then, knowing I wanted to be back with Maunzy they left. I went back into our study, picked Maunzy back up and though his responsiveness was slight, I tried to let him know that he wasn't alone. I sat there for a half hour before I remembered that I was supposed to go visiting teaching at 11:00 and it was 10:40. I went through another mental scenario where I tried to rationalize calling and canceling (feeling that in this case it really would be the better option, since an emotionally unstable visiting teacher is no kind of help) and then I had the specific thought that I could not go because I needed to be with Maunzy when he passed. Precisely at that moment of thought, Maunzy, whose only movements had been barely noticeable for hours, and who had not uttered a single sound, lifted his head, looked straight at me, uttered a last little chatter and then left.
I had worried all morning that I would not know when he was gone because he seemed so lifeless the entire time, but I knew instantly. I felt this sudden understanding that Heavenly Father had answered every single prayer. I realized that I had never asked for him not to die (because I was so certain that he wouldn't) but I had asked that he would be able to eat, that he wouldn't suffer, that he would be made well, and even at the end, that I could be with him when he went. He was blessed in all of those ways. I felt it so profoundly, that I lined a box with a piece of silk I had and walked out my front door, still with tears running down my face and my hair all tousled, and walked to the house of the sister that I was supposed to visit teach. My companion, who was just getting out of her car, saw me coming and put her arms around me in alarm and I explained to her my state of mind as we waited on the front porch. And that is the state in which the sister who we visit found us on the other side of her door. It was good for me to be there with two more friends and to feel of their love and the love of my Heavenly Father through the orchestration of events that morning.
That afternoon I worked through my emotions with a shovel and a hole, which was never used but didn't matter, because by the time we laid our little pet to rest in a better spot, surrounded by family and friends, I felt at peace.
I miss this little friend. He has left a little hole in my heart, but I like to think of him outside of his cage, running and leaping to his hearts content in a better place, waiting for us. Though there have been moments of destruction where I wasn't sure, =) I'm so grateful that Jordan brought him into our lives and blessed us with such a plethora of sweet memories. But most especially, I am grateful that even a funny little rodent can be the means of my Heavenly Father, who is always patient, ever perfect, helping me to learn and feel significant lessons about the love of God and the need for pure love for our fellowman.
