By Jean Moelter

Firstborn started begging for a dog at age six, but his father and I weren’t ready for the commitment. So we convinced him that a rat would be just as much fun. Thus began many years of rodent infestation at our house.
We usually had a few at a time, so they wouldn’t get lonely. Rats only live about two years, and some of ours died peacefully in their sleep. But others developed rat bronchitis and spent their last weeks of life, not coughing exactly, but breathing loudly. We always sought medical treatment for the sick ones, but that just seemed to prolong their suffering—to the tune of eighty dollars for an exam plus antibiotics.
When Firstborn was ten, a rat named Fuzzy developed bronchitis.
“Let’s wait a few days,” I said. “When you’re sick, I don’t take you to the doctor right away. Because sometimes you get better on your own.” But that wasn’t the outcome I expected in this case.     Day after day Fuzzy held on. Her labored breathing upset Firstborn. He’d come home from school and say, “She doesn’t sound any better, Mom. She needs to go to the vet.”
Then one day it occurred to me that I should take Fuzzy to the vet.  And the next time Firstborn brought it up I said, “You’re right, son. But there’s a chance the doctor will think it’s best to put Fuzzy to sleep.”
Firstborn looked sad so I added, “Later we can go to the pet store to see if they have any baby rats.” That cheered him up.
While the kids were at school I called vets all over the county. I skipped our usual vet, who’d make me feel guilty for not pursuing treatment. I eventually found one in another town who treated small animals—and was willing to off them.
This doctor was a young, WASPy type in a white coat. He asked about Fuzzy’s condition, and I told him she was very sick. He removed her from her cardboard box and listened to her lungs with a tiny stethoscope.
When he suggested antibiotics, I realized his receptionist hadn’t conveyed the real purpose of my visit. I explained that I didn’t want Fuzzy to suffer any longer, and I was concerned about my son’s emotional welfare. So I wanted to explore the other option.
He didn’t argue. Using a soft, concerned voice he explained that Fuzzy wouldn’t feel anything, and it’d be over in a few minutes. I told him that sounded fine, and started to leave.
Then he said, “Some people like to stay with their pets during this process. You could hold Fuzzy while I give her the injection.”
I looked down at Fuzzy. Some of our rats were almost cute: smallish with black and white fur. But Fuzzy was huge with spiky brown fur and a long naked tail. I’d worn thick gardening gloves to transfer her to the cardboard box.
“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll just go.”
“All right. I’ll give you a moment to say good-bye.”
This would be my first and last conversation with Fuzzy. I had no idea what to say. Finally I came up with, “So long, Fuzzy. It’s been fun.”
A week later, Firstborn received a condolence card from the vet signed by the entire staff. He was truly touched. It was the first one he’d ever received. But it wouldn’t be the last.

Jean Moelter is a member of SLO NightWriters, the premier writing organization on the
Central Coast of California. She has written several plays for young actors as well as many articles and essays. She performs regularly on local stages.