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juushikaKuzco died at about 4a last night. He held steady for a while after his vet visit, but never put much weight back on and his teeth never regrew and wore properly; over the last little while his weight began to drop slowly and then sharply, and I began feeding him Critical Care again until he started rejecting even force feeding (he would just spit it back up). In his final days he also developed an upper respiratory infection. One by one we could have fought or treated these issues, but taken all together and considering his advanced age, this was his time. He grew listless midday yesterday and rejected all food; at 1a he was occasionally alert but losing motor function. I warmed a towel to counteract his diminishing body heat, gave him some of his painkillers, and held him in my lap while he dozed and his breathing grew weaker. He lost almost all of his motor function, starting from the back legs and working up until he was only able to blink and open his mouth. About half an hour before his death he was breathing in noisy gasps; immediately before dying he gave on last gasp and a shudder and then I knew he was dead. A very ill guinea pig is strange: The remnants of lively instinct remain, and he would seek the scent of food even after losing use of his back legs—but wouldn't chew or swallow even his favorite treats. Instead of the hyper-alert prey animal I was used to coaxing into a cuddle, he was exhausted and limp and utterly calm, a preternatural peace I've never seen in a guinea pig. Yet I knew—even though I'd been checking every minute for the rise and fall of his ribcage, even though I listened for heartbeats in his dead body—just when dying limpness turned to death.
I've seen this coming for some time, and I'm glad I could be there at the end. I can't say how much it helped that I was there without idealizing or anthropomorphizing him, but at least he was warm and undisturbed; I was able to sing him the song I used to sing to comfort the guinea pigs, the same song I used to sing to myself during long nights of anxiety-induced insomnia, which at least helped me. I appreciate seeing the biology of death, it makes it more concrete; I've still not grieved, and no doubt I need to vent my emotions, but on the whole I'm fine even though this comes at the height of some menstrual body/mood issues. He was old and ailing at the end of a long and pretty good life and frankly I was relieved to see him pass in peace and relative swiftness; that's all I'd ask for.
Kuzco is the end of an era: he was my last surviving guinea pig, and I don't plan to have another or to have any small animal for some time. Between Odi and the multiplying cats, I'm surfeited with animals to love.
I was the primary caretaker of my elementary school guinea pig Chumley and I loved him to pieces, and that's why I wanted them as pets. They are everything and nothing that I remembered. I'm a strong advocate against pigs as pets for the casual pet owner (not that there should be any such thing), because they're not what people expect them to be: they're not social the way that people think of pets as social, they require lots of room and fair bit of upkeep, and maintaining for their health can be effortful. But they are also pretty well incomparable, because nothing else can scream for food like they do, or popcorn for a clean cage and then poop in it, or communicate with the mothership in birdlike chirps, or believe that purring while shaking one's rump makes one in any way threatening, or be a guinea pig better than a guinea pig.
Dee is helping with the disposal of his body and belongings (he'll be cremated, and I hope to donate his cage—he was in a travel one in his old age—and useful goods to the Oregon Humane Society), bless. Devon is providing emotional support even at five in the morning. Sympathies and thoughts are welcome, for Kuzco and for all the pigs: they were seven some years of my life, seeing me through literally the worst of it.
I leave you with these pictures of Kuzco at 3 weeks old.
I've seen this coming for some time, and I'm glad I could be there at the end. I can't say how much it helped that I was there without idealizing or anthropomorphizing him, but at least he was warm and undisturbed; I was able to sing him the song I used to sing to comfort the guinea pigs, the same song I used to sing to myself during long nights of anxiety-induced insomnia, which at least helped me. I appreciate seeing the biology of death, it makes it more concrete; I've still not grieved, and no doubt I need to vent my emotions, but on the whole I'm fine even though this comes at the height of some menstrual body/mood issues. He was old and ailing at the end of a long and pretty good life and frankly I was relieved to see him pass in peace and relative swiftness; that's all I'd ask for.
Kuzco is the end of an era: he was my last surviving guinea pig, and I don't plan to have another or to have any small animal for some time. Between Odi and the multiplying cats, I'm surfeited with animals to love.
I was the primary caretaker of my elementary school guinea pig Chumley and I loved him to pieces, and that's why I wanted them as pets. They are everything and nothing that I remembered. I'm a strong advocate against pigs as pets for the casual pet owner (not that there should be any such thing), because they're not what people expect them to be: they're not social the way that people think of pets as social, they require lots of room and fair bit of upkeep, and maintaining for their health can be effortful. But they are also pretty well incomparable, because nothing else can scream for food like they do, or popcorn for a clean cage and then poop in it, or communicate with the mothership in birdlike chirps, or believe that purring while shaking one's rump makes one in any way threatening, or be a guinea pig better than a guinea pig.
Dee is helping with the disposal of his body and belongings (he'll be cremated, and I hope to donate his cage—he was in a travel one in his old age—and useful goods to the Oregon Humane Society), bless. Devon is providing emotional support even at five in the morning. Sympathies and thoughts are welcome, for Kuzco and for all the pigs: they were seven some years of my life, seeing me through literally the worst of it.
I leave you with these pictures of Kuzco at 3 weeks old.
