This evening I really ought to go hunt up a long hooded black robe and a scythe, because two — count ‘em, two — of my pets died today. Not major pets, I suppose; if you rated the Crumpacker pets by weight, the turtle was in about third place and the froggie in fourth or fifth. Both hale and hearty, to meet the eye, up till today. And now both deader than doornails.

This happened to me once before, years ago, when I kept birds. There they were, merrily chirping and feathering my carpet and generally doing their birdly thing, when Erika and I left to go to the Strawberry Festival. When we returned a couple of hours later, both of them were pushing up daisies. Never found out why. No apparent reason. Gas leak? Scared to death by — what? The mystery remains.

But it gives me the shivers. Here is one of the perks of being raised Catholic: a persistent sense that this specific terrible thing is specifically and terribly my fault. I have been biting my lip for three hours pondering how I transgressed against these pets, and when they are replaced, how will I avoid unwittingly bumping off our new charges as well? I’ve been researching various reptiles and amphibians all evening, but I can’t seem to find one which appears to be shatterproof.

I suppose it’s not a bad life lesson for the kids. In between their grandmother’s cancer death last fall and the various life forms I’ve apparently felled, they seem to accept without fuss that death is a part of life. And not being raised Catholic, they don’t even blame themselves! And now back to the research. Do you figure a snake this time? I used to have the most adorable baby ball python I carried around in my bra — he lives with Erika now, but perhaps my bra is a safer place than the wide wide world.

Coda: Crying my eyes out, bringing out my dead and burying them together in my back garden, in the pouring rain. I get similar reactions to beloved plants which die. These are signs than I am either hopelessly stuck in childhood or have (or am trying like hell to have) my finger on the pulse of the Universe, or quite possibly both. Humans too often think life other than theirs doesn’t count. I sometimes think other, “lesser” life, being more in need of protection, counts for more.

Either way. There are these men and children whom I love, and they don’t up and die of red leg on me. I’ll take it.