On March 18th 2019, I lost my first pet. Olive was an amazing little Guinea pig. My friends adored her, and she made the cutest little noises when I fed her parsley. Olive was the center of my world, my mini miracle. I never knew how fast she would leave me. 

I got Olive for my 7th birthday. She was three-weeks-old, and the cutest thing I had ever seen. The breeder was clear that she was not perfect and that I would never win any “best in show” awards with her in 4H. To counter that,  I said, “She may not be perfect, but she’s perfect for me.” So, I went home with my little bundle of joy, proud as can be. Olive soon became a family favorite. She loved to eat strawberries, cilantro, and parsley. She made the cutest little noises when she ate. My friends loved playing games with her. Olive’s favorite thing in the whole world was our elderly dog, Anita. Our dog was so patient with this curious little creature. Olive lived perfectly for two years and fifty-one weeks.

When Olive was racing toward her third birthday she stopped eating and lost her energy. I was so scared, what could possibly be wrong with her? My family and I rushed her to the local emergency vet, and the vet decided that she would need surgery to grind down some molars that were overgrown.  I was crushed to hear that my baby had to go under anesthesia, but I knew that it was more dangerous for her not to have the operation. We scoured the internet looking for the best exotic vet. When we finally found one, we were able to schedule an appointment for the next day. The surgery went off without a hitch! Olive was recovering from anesthesia well and the vet had no concerns. When we got home Olive was tired, but started eating again. When night came we tucked her into her cage and went to bed. While I was trying to sleep she started making weird hiccuping noises. I wondered what those could possibly mean. I walked toward her cage to check on her. Then I heard it, an ear shattering, soul crushing squeak, a cry for help. I dashed over to Olive, and saw her paralyzed on the floor of her cage. I ran to my parents’ room, “I think Olive is dying,” I panted. My dad raced her to the emergency vet, but it was too late: she had died in his car.

When my dad got home, Olive was wrapped in a towel and laid in a box. I grabbed her still, tense body and cradled her. Grief ricocheted through me. She was still warm. I sat on our couch sobbing when my mom shared a poem with me. It told a story about when pets die. They sing and dance until their owner comes to heaven. When their owner arrives, the pet runs over to the owner and brings them into their new home.  The next morning we buried Olive in our backyard. It was beautiful. I buried some of her favorite things with her. We later called the vet, and told her what happened. The vet was so surprised to hear that Olive had passed. She reminded us that death is always a risk with surgery. Her best guess was that Olive choked. Guinea pigs are unable to vomit. Therefore, she could have choked on some vomit due to stress from the surgery.  I was crushed. Throughout this experience, I learned that there is never enough time.

As I started recovering from the grief, all my regrets started flooding my brain. The one time that I didn’t clean her cage.  The times when I forgot to give her extra hay or water. Regrets are a normal part of any loss, but death is the hardest to deal with. Olive ended up living less than her life expectancy, which was awful. What I wouldn’t give for more time with her. Time to play with her again. Time to hear her squeak for more food. I know that I will never get her back, but I am grateful for the many wonderful memories.