Digging a Grave and Losing a Friend

Last weekend my husband dug a grave, and no, it was not his own. My daughter's little gerbil had passed away sometime during the night and we had to have ourselves a funeral. It was her first pet, so we were all a little teary-eyed to say good-bye to little Chewy.

Yes, her name was Chewy.

Although cute, with pretty white fur, chewy was one of those pets that rarely got held. And it wasn't because we didn't have time to hold her. Three times she took a chunk out of my husband. After the third time, he said enough was enough, got himself a pair of leather gardening gloves, and we only took her out when we cleaned her cage each week.

It's sad, thinking back on the life of Chewy. My daughter got her because she wanted a little furry companion to play with but, unfortunately, Chewy just never really took to our family. She even bit a hole in the leather gloves at one point. She was aptly named even before whe knew much about her true nature.

I cried at her funeral, as my husband laid her in the hole we dug at the far end of the flower bed in the shade. My daughter then took the two bags of nuts that we used to feed her and dumped them over Chewy's tiny corpse. On top, she laid a picture she'd drawn of her gerbil and at the bottom she'd written "Chewy: 2010- 2012" (even though we bought her in 2009, but I didn't want to upset her even more).

We tried to have a good day that day, but we were all little blue to see Chewy go.

And I was blue for another good reason. My longtime friend and accountability partner moved out-of-state. I was so sad to see her go, because she's held me up during this last year. I couldn't have made it through if not for her gentle, patient ear listening to all I had to say concerning my husband's addiction and how it tore me in two. We'll keep in touch, but you know how it is -- it's that much harder when someone moves away.

Keep me in your prayers that I may find another close friend who will listen to me over a cup of tea.