The Best Laid Plans of Rats and Men

My plans for this morning did not involve burying Bubonic in the garden, nor overseeing the mourning process of  Plasmosis.  But then I suspect Bubonic's plans didn't involve being euthanized, so there's a lesson to us all about the need to be flexible.

I should explain.  Bubonic and Plasmosis are Genius Son's pet rats.  El Hombre and I are big supporters of kids having pets to teach them responsibility and how love can always be bought with titbits.  Consequently we have a dog, two cats and two rats.  Sorry, no.  One rat.   Oh, and three cats. 

Hang on, let's try this again.  We now have one rat, Plasmosis, courtesy of a stroke, a shoe box, and a one-way trip to the vet yesterday evening.  Poor old Bubonic.  She had started staggering around the cage like a tramp on meths or, more fittingly, a postprandial Keith Floyd.

Keith Floyd, 1943–2009

She was not a well rodent.  Unusually, Genius Son was absent as this little death tableau played out — if pets are going to die they normally wait for him to be first on the scene.  I have often said that if I ever go missing from the old people's home it'll be Genius Son who finds my body.  So in the absence of Genius Son I had to don the fake beard and play God.  Not much fun.  No fun at all, in fact. 

Then there was the delicate question of where to bury Bubonic (sensible to the fact that her final resting place had the potential to sound like a plague pit).  You see, my garden has already reached cadaver capacity — nearly every plant is in memory of a hamster or a cat and I'm that close to contaminating the water table.  There was only one place Bubonic might possibly squeeze in and, I confess, I worried about:

• damaging the roots of a rather lovely Fatsia japonica, and
• digging up Tigsy, beloved cat, missed by all who knew him.

Turns out Genius Son would have preferred it if I'd left Bubonic's body at the vet.  Sentimental fool.   But while his lack of soul disappointed, his response did shed new light over the thorny problem of interment.    If the grieving owner didn't want to view the body or involve himself in any way with the funeral arrangements, could I possibly get away with tipping Bubonic into a hedgerow instead?  I mean, how much of a breach of dead pet etiquette would I be committing here?

Quite a big one, according to Most Beautiful.

My reasoning, that whether Bubonic got returned to her maker via worms or being carried off by a foraging stoat was neither here nor there, fell on deaf ears.  Most Beautiful was emphatic.  Bubonic may have only been a rat, and a bit of a boring one at that, but as a pet she should still be accorded full burial rights in the garden.

End of.

And as I stand by the side of this very small hole surrounded by end of season calendulas, I wonder if the family of Keith Floyd are having the same conversation as we speak.

 

Bubonic, 2007–2009

PS:  The three cats?  I pick up a new kitten later this week...