Death Comes for Gertrude
We had a dog, an Irish Setter appropriately named Casey. Walking her meant opening the backdoor. Secure in the knowledge she was imprisoned by the grey diamond chain link fence from Sears that caged the perimeter of our backyard. Being careful in winter not to touch it with any moist body parts, as in A Christmas Story.
Every few days, my brother or I would partake in a very unpleasant sort of Easter egg hunt. Searching and disposing of Casey’s processed kibble, aka dog shit. Scooping up each crappy treasure and emptying it into the trash can, not having grown up in a sea of plastic bags. This chore of organic waste removal requiring laser focus if we had company coming over. Tetherball, yard darts, and badminton are never fun navigating animal feces. It’s not the type of slip-and-slide that guests enjoy; just saying.
Even though we had a dog, I wanted my own pet. A pet with minimal responsibilities. This is why rodents like hamsters, gerbils, Guinea pigs, and various reptiles are welcomed into our home. As opposed to calling the Orkin man. One a pest, the other a pet. Our admission or omission of the letter “s” the determining factor whether a creature dies while another thrives.
Fortunately, my gerbil, Gertrude, found herself in the latter category. Welcomed into our home with the celebration of one of my preteen birthdays I shared with my sister. This shared sibling birthday celebration ending with the start of puberty. Both of us happy as teenagers to hear only our own name sung while hearing that familiar tune before blowing out the candles.
The upside of getting a gerbil as a birthday present is that it makes gift shopping easier for everyone. Like a baby shower, I was given all the accessories necessary for me to take care of my new critter. I received a Habitrail, water bottle, bedding, food, and a hamster wheel. Even though she’s a gerbil, I’m certain the wheel wasn’t an issue. For those unfamiliar with Habitrail, it’s a well-marketed cage providing the pet owner with the opportunity to acquire other items like tunnels and cubbies to connect to your original purchase. Marketing 101.
Mine entirely made of plastic. Regrettably, my brother and I would discover the unwarranted pleasure of listening to Gertrude’s nocturnal chewing, “scrap, scrap, scrap, gnaw, gnaw, gnaw,” followed by “scrap, scrap, scrap, gnaw, gnaw, gnaw” a repetitive rodent lullaby to disturb our sleep. An unnatural sound of nature, even nature would be annoyed to hear. Maybe a call to the Orkin man?
On an ordinary afternoon at the age of nine, I came home from school and found Gertrude on her little back. Her little paws were up in the air, her little body without movement. I immediately went to my Mom, tears running down my cheeks, expecting she had the ability to raise rodents from the dead.
I had never encountered death as a child. All my grandparents were alive. The exception was my Grandma Young, whose death and funeral I don’t recall. Not yet understanding the concept of here today, gone tomorrow.
Gertrude’s death a brief, painful echo. As compared to the long, bitter sting the death of a loved one inflicts. Temporarily, separating us from those we deeply love. Luckily for me that pain would happen later in my life. I was like a young Hindu prince, unfamiliar with the four passing sights.
My Mom, playing the role of Quincy M.E., Animal Corner, confirmed Gertrude had passed. Doing what happens when all animals pass, we disposed of the cadaver. Burying her since we lacked a rodent crematorium.
I found an appropriately sized burial box. Lining it with white two-ply toilet paper and placing Gertrude inside. I left the top off at the burial, preferring to go with an open casket at her graveside service.
On that chilly, breezy, nondescript autumn day, we gathered on the south side of our house. I dug a hole near the seven-foot-tall row of sunflower stalks. Lined up like straw soldiers against the white aluminum siding. These deceased sunflowers, the miracle of kernels I planted in the spring. Producing a bounty whose harvest had been long consumed. The only testament to what was alive was its stalks. Bitten and chewed by frost, they looked like dried corn husks. Paying homage to the land’s agricultural past, where our lives were rooted.
My Mom and I looking down on Gertrude. Her lifeless little body resting in her tissue-lined casket. Suddenly, her little legs twitched.
In disbelief, I thought the wind was being mischievous. It happened again, and a third time. No longer a doubting Thomas, I brought Gertrude back inside the house, returning her to her plastic abode.
Within the hour, she was in the same expired position I found her earlier. Her terminal lucidity having passed, we gathered a second time at her graveside and conveyed our final farewell. My cold little hands putting the lid on top of her paper casket and covering it with soil. Placing a flower on top of the recently disturbed dirt. Returning to God what God alone created. My role as transitory caretaker ended.
I didn’t replace Gertrude; my life was getting busier with scouts and church. Like Mrs. Potts, I was now forever just as sure, as the sun will rise, that death would visit me again. I had experienced just a small taste of its bitter cup.
I would realize, as the number of candles expanded in celebration of my natal anniversary, that death is always present. It always surrounds the living and has many guises. Death doesn’t mean the end, just the unknown. This terrifying me until I found peace. Number 32 is right in his paraphrase of Thoreau, that we have nothing to fear except fear itself, and people of faith have no need of fear.
Donald Harold Young