“Jason, you’d better come here!” I yelled from upstairs. I had just walked into the bedroom of my 7-year-old son Nolan. At the time, we were babysitting the second grade class pet, a guinea pig named Pumpkin, over the holiday break.

Side-stepping clothes and toys that littered the room, I approached the table where Pumpkin’s cage sat, just out of reach from the nosy white-flashed snout of our golden-retriever mix. Pieces of hay lay scattered across the table. The sweet and grainy smells of cedar chips and food pellets rose to greet me.

  “Did you feed Pumpkin last night?” I asked Nolan. “Yes, but she didn’t eat. She was really quiet last night.” Hearing this, my stomach did a little flip. During the first few nights of her stay, Pumpkin’s nocturnal squeaks and rustling spooked Nolan to my bedside complaining that her sounds kept him awake. I stared at the furry critter and only her substantial round rear end stuck out of her rainbow-colored wooden house. Did she always sleep like this (I pondered)? I hadn’t really paid attention. Feeling squeamish and not quite willing to confirm my suspicions, I couldn’t bring myself to touch her. Please tell me we didn’t kill the class pet!

My husband came marching up the stairs and into our son’s room. Jason can always be counted on to manage problematic animal and insect issues. I once waited two days for him to get home from a business trip to dispose of an impressively frightening wolf spider that had taken up residence in a laundry basket. By then, our 5-year-old had joined our viewing party along with our dog who sniffed around, wagging his tail obliviously.

“I think there’s something wrong with Pumpkin,” I said. My son looked at us with his round eyes searching ours, and then back down at the motionless animal. Jason leaned over the top of the cage to get a closer look. He lifted up the lid of the cage and poked his finger into the brown furry form. It didn’t respond. “Yep, deader than a door nail,” he announced matter-of-factly. I frowned at my husband’s lack of tact.

Nolan looked at me with wide eyes, softly asking, “Pumpkin is dead?” I nodded. “Yes, she sure is. I’m so sorry, buddy.” A small pout formed around his lips. He looked at her glumly and didn’t say anything. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” I reassured, just in case he thought he was somehow responsible. And I added for good measure, “She had a good life.”

Questions started to swirl around my mind. What am I supposed to do with a dead guinea pig? Will Nolan forever be labeled as the kid who killed the second grade class pet? “OK, listen,” I announced confidently. “I’ll call Mrs. Stoops on the way to church, and we’ll find out what she wants us to do.” After piling ourselves into our truck, I nervously dialed his teacher’s cell. I was unsure how she would react, but I was certain that this veteran teacher would know exactly what to do.

“Hi, Mrs. Stoops? This is Christa Hines. I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but we have a problem….” I bit my lip. “Pumpkin died last night.” I held my breath. She was strangely nonchalant. “Oh,” she replied. “Well, first of all, don’t go buy another one.” How did she know that idea had already crossed my mind? “Poor Nolan,” she continued. “I bet he’s upset.” I looked behind me into the backseat. Nolan was carrying on an animated conversation with his brother about cars. “Well, he seems OK…um, maybe a little shocked.”

As it turns out, at 6-years-old, Pumpkin was a senior guinea pig living on borrowed time. “What should we do with her?” I asked, then lowering my voice to whisper, “I don’t want to just throw her away.” Mrs. Stoops agreed that wouldn’t be dignified. So, Nolan and I met her that afternoon in the school parking lot. Concern warmed her brown eyes as she gently greeted Nolan. She assured him that she’d bury Pumpkin with other deceased class pets in her backyard ─ who knew… teacher by day, pet cemetery worker by night. Relief began to show in Nolan’s now relaxed shoulders. I awkwardly heaved the cage containing our lifeless furry fiend out of the back of my car and handed it over to Mrs. Stoops.

While I’d anticipated an exercise in responsibility, I’d optimistically and naively failed to imagine we’d be addressing the issue of mortality instead. Rather than playing the role of supervising caretaker, I’d assumed a partial role as undertaker. Truth be told, this isn’t the first time my fanciful visions of a parenting moment didn’t align with what actually happened. As they say, reality is sobering. Thankfully my son (and presumably his classmates) solemnly accepted Pumpkin’s passing. And with that, everyone moved forward. Rest in peace, Pumpkin.