The Pain in Quiet

Ever since January of 2014, my nights have always been filled with noises, some small and subtle, others loud and a bit obnoxious. Those noises were caused by my pygmy hedgehog, Tesla, who died in the absurdly early hours of the 15th. He was a couple of months past 5, which in hedgehog years is roughly 80 years old, and relatively old for those living in captivity.

For those who aren’t familiar with these adorable & prickly pets, hedgehogs are nocturnal, which actually worked out pretty well in a college setting. It meant that when I was in classes, he was sleeping peacefully, and when I got home & had either finished or put a pin in, he was awake and far more receptive to snuggling & playing. Yet, despite my own tendencies to fall into nocturnal patterns, he was inevitably awake while I was sleeping, or working on falling asleep, doing his own thing. The softer sounds of him rustling around his tub, from munching on his favorite cat food to rearranging his “furniture,” quickly became the ambient noise that typically fell to the background. The scraping sound of him sprinting like a marathon runner on his wheel took longer to get used to, but not much. An absence of that noise kept me awake more than hearing it, because it was so abnormal. I remember when I was living in a suite at school, my friends and I would be up late binge watching a show or watching movies and, usually around midnight, the sound of Tesla running on his wheel would start up down the hall from our lounge. For those of our friends who didn’t live with us (or spend so much time in our suite that they were honorary suite members), the squeaking, scratching noise more or less spooked them. For those of us who lived there, we barely noticed when he woke up and got going.

The ambient noise of Tesla running, shuffling, eating, and drinking became an assumed part of my evening. Nights when he was abnormally quiet set me on edge, and for those rare trips where I didn’t bring him with me, it felt mildly unnerving to not have those sounds going in the background. What feels like they key difference between those trips and now is that when I was away, I knew he was okay & doing his normal thing back home. Now, he’s just gone.

My room feels so empty now. Beyond the concrete and literal interpretations of that – which are also accurate; his tub, food, & other things took up a substantial amount of space in my home bedroom – I’m the only one in my room now. I used to talk to him, in what I imagine is a typical manner for pet owners. I’d talk to him about things that were stressing me out, about things I was excited about, or about him. When he’d make sudden noises, or when he’d hiss at me because he didn’t want to be disturbed, I’d chuckle and then take on that voice that most people shift into without thinking about it to talk to babies & animals to give him gentle rebukes. I’d make small, usually slightly sarcastic, comments as I finished up my nighttime routines and climbed into bed – “good morning, buddy;” “ah, hush, ya grump;” or “happy running, stinker” being some of the most frequent ones  (A small aside for anyone contemplating getting a pygmy hedgehog. I have no regrets about getting Tesla, but there was one glaring fallacy that my roommate and I kept encountering in our research: hedgehogs don’t come with a particularly strong aroma. Maybe it was just Tesla, but dear God were his feces pungent. I may concede that there wasn’t any particularly strong smell coming from Tesla himself, but there’s no way we could have cleaned fast enough to keep up with his pooping schedule, and there was no masking that odor. He very much earned the nicknames Stinker & Stink-butt, the latter being a favorite of my sister’s).

Now, I’ll start one of those comments and turn towards where his tub used to be out of habit, before remembering that he’s not there. I haven’t been away from him for more than two weeks in the almost 5 years I had him.

Almost two weeks ago, I found him laying on his side half-way out of his igloo radiating an exhaustion that I’ve never seen in a living creature other than a few people who were close to the end of their lives. Almost two weeks ago, I picked him up to see if I could cheer him up or get him to eat, only to be startled that he didn’t prickle when I gently scooped him up into my hands. Almost two weeks ago, I let him run around on my lap like I did when he was little, although his attempt at running was slowed by arthritis. Almost two weeks ago, I cradled him in my hands as he struggled to draw his last few breaths around 4 in the morning. Almost two weeks ago, I choked back tears, telling this small creature who’d been in my care for almost 5 years that it was okay to let go.

Almost two weeks ago, I found myself sobbing in my room after my companion for the last 5 years had shuddered into stillness in my hands, unable to make myself put him down for over half an hour.

There are a lot of people who can only fall asleep if it’s quiet – who can’t fall asleep if music is playing or the tv is on. For me, the silence in my room is just a reminder of the void situated right next to my door. For me, the lack of noise makes me wish for the noises I’ve been used to for years… for the little creature who often made himself resemble a pin cushion to be there making those noises.

The only thing that gives me any comfort at this point is that he isn’t hurting anymore. One way or another, his pain is over and he’s free of a body that had wasn’t working the way he wanted it to and made it impossible for him to do the things he loved to do.

Maybe it’s a bit ridiculous for me to be experiencing the level of grief that I am over a pet hedgehog. After all, I knew when I got him that he wasn’t likely to live more than 3 or 4 years. He made it longer than I’d let myself hope he would. I’ve spent the last few months watching his body betray him as he got older, and I knew it wouldn’t be long. Part of me is relieved that I don’t have to sit on needles anymore waiting for it to happen.

Unfortunately, emotions rarely follow logic. Tesla was with me for a little more than 1/5 of my life so far. I couldn’t sleep in my room for a week after he died. I’m not excited about the rapidly approaching day that will mark the longest I’ve gone without him with me in nearly 5 years.

If you’ve made it to the end of this post, thank you for bearing with me through this. I know it’s not the uplifting post that would be typical for this time of the year, but it’s the post I needed to write.

I hope all of you had a wonderful holiday season, whatever your celebrations may be. May 2019 be a much kinder and benevolent year than 2018.

Goodbye, Tesla. You may have had your grouchy days, but I wouldn’t have traded you for anything. You are loved and you are missed. I hope you found your way home. ♥