An Ode to Piquet

My brother is nine years older than me, practically making me an only child. He was always going to leave our house and my life—there was no doubt about it. I didn't know that back then because I was too young. My parents constantly bought me new pets to combat the loneliness I faced.

My first pet was a bearded dragon named Toothless. We got her when I was in kindergarten. She set the standards for who I would become. I never wanted to blend in, always craving to stand out, and having a pet lizard will undoubtedly make you stand out. I would talk about my beloved beardie on every occasion. She would go to school events and my daycare. Anywhere I could bring her, she was there. For the holidays, I wrote plays for us to perform. In the summer, I filled up Tupperware for her to swim in, and nearly every day, we sat on the couch and watched TV together. She was my best friend.

The day she died, my dad still made me go to school.

Piquet was a belated Christmas gift. We got him and his brother, Bear, when I was in high school. We went to the store, and when a white ferret with beady red eyes bit me in the face, I knew I had to have him.

Piquet did well to combat my solitude, but when I left for college, any loneliness, anxiety and sadness I had tried to suppress came rushing in through the cracks. I found myself falling apart quickly and often.

The first time I went home for winter break, I cried. Even before I got home, I cried. Time at my house was frozen in a world I would never be a part of again. It felt like nothing was tying me to the life I used to know except for my disgusting, stinky, no-good ferrets.

This year, when I went home for break, Piquet died. He was old, and I knew it was coming, but that didn’t change the fact that I didn’t want him to leave like everyone else had. Piquet saw me make shirts for spirit week in high school, trying and failing to tan in the backyard, and he was there for my horrible musical phase. He met all my friends, even my college roommate. When he died, a piece of my childhood did, too.

His death was slow and miserable. He didn’t eat, he couldn’t walk, and all we could do was wait. My Moob was a horrible, terrible creature who didn’t understand that biting hurt. He slept through the vacuum cleaner and was so bottom-heavy he would fall down the stairs when he got out of his cage. He loved to be bounced like a baby and was scared of the bathtub. I knew his ins and outs; he knew I would put him down if he licked my eye. Watching him wither away made me feel helpless, and seeing him become a stranger, losing himself to his illness, was indescribable.

The ferret cage is in my brother’s old room. His bed and all his belongings are long gone. The carpet is the same, and his books line some shelves like a ghost of the past. I spent years building myself up in that room, trying to be entertaining enough to capture my brother’s attention. When he moved out, I didn’t want to touch his stuff. Moving everything aside for my pets felt wrong.

Yet now, years have passed, and that’s all I know. A small piece of me still expects Piquet to be there. But I know neither he nor my brother will ever be in that room again.

And so, I’m going to mourn my dead ferret and my dead childhood. I’ll hold onto Piquet, but my memories are quickly fading. I’ll see him in his Rice Krispies Treat coffin and try to remind myself that he was loved, just as I once was. He was so loved, but I don’t know if he ever knew it. He would get double treats, and I would sneak him into my parents’ bed when they weren’t home so that he could jump around. In return, he would lick the inside of my ear.

Prolonged death may be the worst kind. It’s not silent; it doesn’t sneak up on you, and you know it’s coming. You make plans and come to terms with it, yet it doesn’t feel real when it happens. Your bones grow weak and tired until you have to be fed through a syringe.

Ultimately, you’ll still get buried in the backyard and find yourself right back where you started.