At Least They're Committed

You hear that? That’s about the third time it’s happened and yeah it’s always when I’m the only human around. Once I even did say something, the other times I’ve caught myself. “Sid, stop!” I had called out. It’s a hiss, a very distinct cat-like hiss emanating from the middle of the room or from the hope chest where he slept and it’s always when the dogs are in or the weasels are out. It can’t be Sid. He’s dead. Murdered by Raul the husky-bull terrier mix while we were vacationing at the ranch. The petsitter and her boyfriend tried to stop it, but ended up getting thrashed in the process.

We’ve been in this house for six years as of Sept. 4. Before that, the Martinez family lived here for five years. The house is 11 years old. Nothing remarkable nor tragic happened in this house before the Murder of Sid. So it seems we have our first ghost.

Day 5 of working from home and young, brindle Mina keeps trotting past with empty wrappers: the first time long-gone jalapeno pepper potato chips, this time flaming hot Cheetos. Now she’s fighting over them on the second floor with the black Pearla, the latest refugee. . . Madison’s dog. Her real name is Busurita (however that’s spelled) because she was found in a trash bin in Mexico.

Too many refugees. After the Murder of Sid, I realized there was no way you can save everyone or everything and I just need to stop trying. I fully intend to do that after Lily and Madison move out and take the weasels and Sid . . . oh, no, wait. That WAS the plan. I mean, when they take the weasels and Pearla and maybe Beulah or Raul.

Sid was the third animal murdered in my family. First was Pepper, the ebony rabbit, who Belle played with to death after he escaped his hutch one night. Not a mark on him. He was just dead. Sucked.

Second was the parakeet. Oh, that was a freakish one! Never could figure out how the bird kept getting out of the cage. It was a great cage! Clean and white and strong! But, alas, I looked in there one afternoon while waiting for the older two kids to get home from school and, again, no bird. I eyed ceiling, floor, plants, I checked all the windows to make sure she couldn’t have gotten out of the house. Hmmm. Finally I got down on all fours and looked into Molly’s wire cage, into her dark nest that had once housed a 12-pack of soda and lo! I could see the parakeet, green, blue, perky! It was standing in the box opposite Molly as if in some sort of stand off. But as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, it was what I couldn’t see that sent me scrambling backwards, squelching a scream. No head. The parakeet had no head. It was standing there, not a feather ruffled, but the rat, a cast-off from the elementary school, had bitten off, and swallowed, her head.

But those were all in other houses. Sid’s the first murder — and hopefully the last — in this one. I’m so, so sorry Sid! By me trying to save you, by giving you refuge after being cast off at age 16, you ended up dead. So I’ve got to stop. Nobody’s going to save me but me and trying to save other people or animals doesn’t make it any more likely that they’ll be considerate of me or give back to me in any way. Doing good deeds and expecting nothing in return has its limits and I guess I’ve finally reached mine. Dear God, I’ve learned my lesson. Kindness kills.

Sorry Sid that it took your murder, the echo of your spirit to finally bring me to this point. No new pets, no new friends, in fact, after the brush-off last night, I think I need to be content to go without friends period. In the meantime, Sid, if you wouldn’t mind, stop hissing.