Dead and Buried

There’s been an unfortunate number of deaths in the Goddard household of late. Boychild’s guinea pig, Norman, died last weekend. Twin One’s guinea pig, Humphrey, popped his clogs just before Christmas. This was swiftly followed by Shakira the dwarf Chinese hamster, and the replacement miniature Russian critters are missing, presumed dead, having escaped from the wrong sort of cage. Who knew? This leaves us with two cats, Holly and Jess, Fat Elvis (surviving guinea pig), and the hamster with no name. I think Twin Two decided there’s not much point in naming a pet when it will may well croak in the foreseeable. 

When I noticed that Norman was feet up in the run on Saturday morning I swiftly put him in a shoe box in the shed in order to ensure that Boychild didn’t happen upon him. He was very fond of the little feller, and Norman tolerated Boychild taking him on trips in his Tonka trucks. I’m sorry to say that in my haste I forgot to cover Norman, and only remembered that I had left him in plain sight on Monday morning during the school run. I also remembered, with a titanic sinking feeling, that a house viewing was scheduled an hour later. I needed to get to work, so I debated whether the sight of a dead guinea pig would be off putting to a would-be buyer. I decided that it wasn’t worth leaving this to chance – there’s enough to put off potential purchasers in Casa Goddard - without stumbling upon a deceased animal. I was late for work.

I forgot to mention Mildred, a cat who adopted us, and Frank took something of a shine to without ever admitting it on account of the fact that he HATED cats. During one of my moments of rage in the days following Frank's death, and during funeral planning I considered the Cats Protection League for charitable donations: that'll learn the fucker for dying on me. He cooked her prime chicken breasts and tuna protesting that it had to be eaten or it would go off (in five days’ time). She had been a stray and was very skinny when she arrived. We assumed that the weight she was gaining was a consequence of her fine dining, but then realised that she was pregnant. She gave birth to Bob, Lady Gaga, Cheryl Cole, Richard and Napoleon Dynamite. In any event, shortly after Frank’s death and the realisation that she would eat cat food or go hungry she did one.

These recent events brought to mind an incident two years ago in the dying days of the school holidays. My neighbour called and said that there was a dead ginger cat in her garden, and thought it might be Holly. I duly identified the departed animal, wrapped it in a sheet and brought it back to our garden. I broke the news to the Little Darlings, and they sobbed in a group huddle, back in the day when the death of a pet was really upsetting. I suggested a funeral, and we picked a spot under an apple tree for Holly to rest in peace, mostly from Boychild’s nurf wars. The grave was dug, a box of Whiskers at the ready for sustenance as she went on the journey to meet her maker. As I was about to place the bundle in the grave, the Little Darlings asked if they could see Holly one last time. I pulled back the sheet and exposed the statuesque creature. The children exclaimed, in unison: “That’s not our cat!” and, as if by magic, Holly walked nonchalantly past us. Oops. 

What’s the point of this post? I’m not sure. Boychild was sad when I told him about Norman, but not very sad. Death has a curious way of putting things in perspective, and I am now a firm believer in the maxim “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I’m still fucking angry about the Government’s proposals to murder the criminal justice system, but I know Team Goddard will be well.