Yesterday is one we won’t talk about again.
First grandson who loses out on everything crucial and less so (which he well knows and simply, softly, graciously takes to be his due, rarely but sometimes with tears) lost sight of his only fur-pet, a tiny Roborovski hamster, when she very uncharacteristically leaped from his hand to the floor. She was okay and took off, but while looking for her, he stepped on her.
Under the arbor, of course, is son’s cat whom he so devastatingly ran over years ago, and here and there are other cats, turtles, and Bacon the enormous goldfish whom I rescued from being turtle food and sang to when everyone was gone for the day, but towards the front, now, there’s quite a pet graveyard going on..
A mammoth rectangle of granite denotes where a mammoth “JJ” (our dog) ended up many years ago. Beside him is a medium flat rock denoting the final resting place of grandson’s first exclusively-his fur-pet, a gerbil (“Fugo” went from natural causes after 2 years). Now, there’s a smaller stone (and some picked lilacs) under which “Ghost” newly resides. If only her leap had been the demise.
Color me silly, but looking over that spot, it feels even more than names painted on stones someday that a little Cross or something eternalish wouldn’t go amiss. Certainly, we bury more than pets on those days, don’t we?
I wasn’t going to move my St. Francis sculpture back to JJ’s ledge from the front steps — it gets so beat up in winters — but really, who better to watch over them? Plus, the stone pond before him holds a bowl of water for small tree and burrow critters on ridiculously hot days.
But, you know, maybe an all-weather twig-Cross would remind any tender-hearted onlooker that final resting places are no such thing — or at least that we aren’t the only ones who loved them (Mt 10:29).