Sally

When Jane was eight I bought her a hamster. She named it Sally. The little ball of fur had a cage with two levels, more tubes to crawl through than you'd find at Chuck-E-Cheese and, of course, the ubiquitous running wheel. Sally ate well and was well cared for and Jane loved her.

As is the case in all mortal life, be it human or rodent, Sally finally met her demise one cloudy September morning. Jane was not with me that day and I wrapped the stiffening little body in a soft cloth and placed it in a Disney gift box. I called Carrie and told her the news, which she relayed to Jane after picking her up from school. I called my ex-wife's live-in boyfriend and he agreed to dig a grave in the backyard.

I drove the short distance to the house with Sally resting on the passenger seat. Jane was in tears but smiled a little when she saw the colorful princess illustrated box. I handed the make-shift coffin to my daughter and she held it carefully as we moved to the freshly dug hole. Jane knelt and, with as much care and tenderness as the most seasoned mourner, she lay her furry friend in the ground. I suggested she may want to cover the box with earth herself. She nodded, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and picked up the shovel. She tossed one pile of dirt over the box, then another and then one more. She rose to her feet and fixed us with a glare of frustration. She jabbed the point of the shovel into the dirt and exclaimed, "Well, isn't anyone going to help me?!"

I knew then, as I finished covering the box with earth, that our daughter was going to be just fine.