The irony is that Bernie was named after the movie Weekend at Bernie’s.  Because like the movie Bernie, he was supposed to already be dead.
 
(People who know me in real life?  SO sick of that joke.)
 
The fact is Bernie was to be food, not a pet.  I am not going to share the details, but I hope everyone reading here knows me well enough to trust that I do not go around feeding animals to other animals unless it is necessary.  If I did, I wouldn’t put it in writing.
 
It was a life or death situation, and live prey was a possible solution.  Unfortunately, death came before Bernie could be supper.  Or I suppose fortunately if you were Bernie.
 
While I am pragmatic about the circle of life and had no issue offering up choice food to an animal that hadn’t eaten in weeks, I am not cruel.  I would not just chuck Bernie to a willing carnivore for the sake of it.
 
So.  Animal dead.  Bernie alive.  In a laundry basket in our bathroom.
 
I was married at the time and after discussing options we decided we should just suck it up and admit that we owned a guinea pig.
 
I had never really liked rodents.  But the truth is, Bernie had an awesome personality.  He was spunky and loving all at the same time.  He was fearless around the cats and our dog. 
 
(The cats and dog basically looked at him with amused interest.  He was big enough to not be an immediate dinner option and I’ve been lucky to raise my animals with a high tolerance for other species.)
 
He felt Sheba was his girlfriend, and would sit as close as possible to her on the couch, leaning in lovelorn.
 
After we gave in to the inevitable that we were now cavy owners, we started doing some research.  For one, almost all store-bought cages are too small.  Many people do not understand the importance of a continuous supply of timothy hay.  And, most important, guinea pigs are social animals and can die from depression.
 
It was clear to us from the very beginning that Bernie was incredibly social.  He loved attention from anyone or thing in the house.  So on top of creating a big open cage out of Rubbermaid wreath containers, we started looking into a second guinea pig.
 
(Not only was the bigger cage good for his health, but also it allowed more interaction with humans walking by.)
 
I saw Bernie and Cocoa as more my ex-husband’s pets than mine.  But when we split, he didn’t want them.  We already had to give up the dog and it killed me.  I couldn’t abandon more animals.  So Bernie and Cocoa came with me.
 
I particularly enjoyed it when I moved into the condo, because the floor is mostly tile and the rug is short, stiff fibers.  Very easy to clean up after them.
 
Bernie was over four-years-old.  Getting up there but definitely not geriatric. I found him dead but still warm this morning. 
 
I examined him some and his bottom teeth looked a little long.  I am wracked with guilt that I didn’t check his like I did Cocoa’s when I clipped their toenails last.  (Cocoa bites sometimes, so I have his teeth more on my mind.)
 
Besides noticing just yesterday afternoon that the food dish and water bottle seemed a bit too full, I had no other warning.  After that observation, I handed out timothy hay and parsley before heading to the sanctuary.  Bernie partook of at least the parsley.  He hadn’t lost any weight that I could tell or showed any other symptoms of an issue.  He had never needed teeth trimming in the four years I’d owned him.  I should have checked, but it isn’t anything I’ve ever had an inclination would be a problem with him. 
 
And even with all that said, I can’t be sure what really happened.  That’s frustrating.  I am teaching all the other pets to write so they can leave me goodbye notes and be specific on what I should feel guilty about.
 
I am sad that he is gone.  He was a chipper, demanding little guy who made me laugh.  I am sadder for Cocoa though.  They were a good pair.  Cocoa is not taking this well; just laying there right now.
I’m not quite sure what I will do now.  I might try letting Cocoa live free-range so that he has the company of the cats full time.  But he has always been more skittish of them than Bernie.  I really can’t see myself getting another guinea pig.  And Cocoa’s age and health (tumor) don’t make him a great candidate for adoption.
 
This was definitely an unpleasant way to start my day.  And yes, I can’t help but think about karma and jinxes and such.  But the funny thing about that is, last night was the first time in a long while that TG spent the night.  We’ve both been so busy; away on trips and having to be places early even on weekends.  And the last couple of times we did spend the night together was at his (cat-hair-free, big-screen-TV) place. 
 
Just having him there, someone to talk to about it, rub my back, sympathize that picking up dead pet is just not a good morning activity, was a real help.  So while the world might like to let me know I am not above life’s icky parts, at least it didn’t kick me in the teeth after throwing me to the ground.