Tempelton was a shoulder rat. Wherever I was, she was, and was happy to be there. I would sometimes take her on car rides, and she didn't seem to mind them at all. She would just snuggle under my coat (if it was winter) and curl up on my shoulder. We once took her to a Subway, where the young workers didn't seem to appreciate her, but her mouth was litereally watering from all the yummy smells.
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Here is an example of my feeble attempts at photography. Tempelton never liked the idea of being placed next to these huge furry creatures and being expected to hold still while I made a flash of light so bright it temporarily blinded her. |
| Another picture taken at the same time, this is one of the cutest pictures I've ever been able to snap of Tempelton, a.k.a. Horsie Head. The bear she is posing by has long since been left in a hotel somewhere...(can't go anywhere without atleast ONE). |
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One day in November of '97 on my way out the door to the bus stop, I noticed a small, out of place bump on the inside of Tempelton's left thigh. It was hard, and seemed to appear overnight. I knew right away what it was, and on November 7th, she had a tumor removed that was exactly 1 inch in diameter. She did not like that at ALL, especially the location of the tumor. One characteristic about Tempelton was that she never liked to be petted anywhere by her tummy, and she HATED all the attention this thing was giving her. But she came out of the surgery okay, with a clean, small shaved spot. The tumor had apparently been benign, but it was never officially tested.
During the next few months, everything was back to normal; Tempelton was the sweet little darling she always had been, and to this day she remains the only rat I could let run around the bed while I layed down for a nap. Usually, she curled up on my arm and slept with me! Anyone who had previously hated even the THOUGHT of rats would have their hearts melted when Tempelton was on duty. But ever so gradually, with the coming months, Tempelton grew weak, and didn't eat as much. Every night when I went to dish out the grub, she would always have some left in her bowl. As time wore on, she ate less and less, and concentrated more and more on being with ME. She hated being locked up in her cage, couldn't stand the idea of being separated from me. A couple nights I set her cage on my bed with the door open so she could sleep with me if she wanted, and go to the bathroom in her cage if she had to, but she didn't really like that arrangement.
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As time passed, Tempelton had more and more trouble breathing. She would lay next to me on my bed, struggling for each breath. Sometimes, she would actually stop breathing for up to 10 seconds, even though her rib cage would still be moving. Then, with a small *GASP!* sound, she would resume breathing. We became a regular around the vet's office, and Tempelton was always on some sort of medication, none of which worked. | One Sunday, in the beginning of the following May, I found Tempelton in her cage, shuddering and gasping and making small choking/sneezing noises. She was trying desperately to cough up all the liquid in her lungs, but only got a little of it out at a time, and she practically choked on the rest. As I held her I would wipe off her face every few minutes because it was covered in gook coughed up from her lungs. I was sure she was living her last few minutes and was about to die right there in my arms, but she held on and lived to see another day. |
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On a later trip to the vet, he told me that his best guess of what was happening was that she had grown tumors in her lungs, and on top of that her lungs were full of fluid, making it almost twice as hard to breathe. I don't like the term "He/she died of old age," because everyone has to die of SOMETHING. Old age, nowadays, can range from heart failure to cancer to pneumonia.
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Tempelton didn't die that night, but after holding her for at least an hour I placed her back in her cage, where she didn't even make a move. I thought that if she WAS dying, maybe she would want to go in her home, where she had lived the past 2 years. Like I said, she didn't die, but I used up a whole roll of film that night trying desperately to capture a little bit of Tempelton to keep after she died. No picture could show me how after trying to clean herself, she had wiped her lung fluid all over her face and the fur was now spikey. No picture could show how her pelvic bones jutted out from beneath her taut skin with sparse fur. |
The Friday following that horrible weekend, I got home from school and could feel how much pain it caused Tempelton to go on living each day. I don't know what it was, but something told me Tempelton had lived her life, and if I didn't help her, she would go on fighting for weeks more, maybe even months, until she died from the exhaustion of living. So I picked up the phone, and a half hour later we were at the vet's office. She was put to sleep in the same room she had her tumor diagnosed in; the same room where later we would make the decision to remove my rat Hamlet's leg. The vet injected her with something or other, then put her in my arms. For ten minutes my mom, the vet and I stroked and petted her, while she ever so slowly drifted off, and finally stopped breathing for good. The vet placed a stethoscope on her ribs and told us there was "no more Tempelton left."
When we left the vet, I couldn't believe we were leaving without Tempelton. All of a sudden I felt the deperate need to know WHERE Tempelton had gone. Moments ago she had been resting in my arms, and now where was she? Was she alright? Was she happy? I hope right now she is playing on the Rainbow Bridge with Hamlet and other deceased ratties. Some day I will see her again.
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