Every Memorial Day weekend, my kids, husband, and I go to my favorite place on Earth: my grandparents’ farm. The property is nearly 300 acres of wooded hills, stone walls, peace, and quiet. The land is gorgeous, of course, but the most charming asset is actually my grandparents and the rest of my dad’s family, who live in relatively close proximity.
Lots of wild animals can be seen at the farm during all seasons, but Memorial Day weekend brings a seeming migration of salamanders. They appear in great numbers in vernal ponds and intermittent streams and under rocks in shaded, muddy areas.
One of my kids’ favorite activities (OK, and mine, too!) is newt-hunting with my dad. The kids love it because they always manage to get me to let them keep one as a pet. My dad loves it because, as a man of action who cannot stand idleness, he needs to “do” something as a way of connecting with my offspring. I love it because we get to hang out with Dad/Grampa and be outside without the kids asking one time to go inside/play on their Kindles/watch TV.
And experiencing the wonder of this little adventure through the kids’ eyes is crazy amazing. They love the hunt. They love to be the first to spot a salamander. They love to pick them up and handle them gently. They love to name them and attribute all sorts of character traits to them. How they can glean emotional clues from a salamanders face, I will never know — but, who am I to argue?
We all share a belief in fairies and things unseen. (Well, we share the desire for them to be real, and we often act like they are.) So as we marvel at the little amphibians, we question who, if anyone, cares for the salamanders. Of what use might they be to the fairy villages we believe are right under our noses if only we had the magic to see them? Do salamanders pull fairy carriages? Dig their gardens? Act as Watch Newts? Nothing keeps kids busier than their imaginations, and I love to see how my kids’ creative minds are put to use.
After returning from the world of fairies, we manage to catch one or five or 17 newts and take them back to the farm in a big Tupperware container filled with grass, moss, and a bit of water. We sit on the porch and study them and see who gets peed on first, because the huge danger of newts is (aside from their mildly toxic skin) the fact that they defecate on you with surprising frequency.
The Memorial Day holiday of 2011 was our first hunt. My daughter was 5 and my son was 2. We found many newts and, after considerable begging, mostly by my dad on behalf of the kids, we took a salamander home as a pet. She (for my daughter decided our newt was a girl and named her “Pudding”) survived the two-hour drive back to our house, and we had to immediately find a pet store to acquire the necessary supplies: small aquarium, food bowl, resin rock, and some kind of fake moss. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized pet stores actually sold “Newt and Salamander Bites” as food; they, in fact, do, and so we bought some of that as well.
In theory, this type of creature is low-maintenance. Salamanders shouldn’t be handled a lot, and they don’t need to go for walks. However, their aquariums need to be kept very clean, and so every three or four days, I’d have to take out all of the contents, wash them in hot water, wipe out the container, and then replace everything. My daughter did “help,” insomuch as a 5-year-old can. But, as parents all know, it’s often just easier to do it yourself.
Things hummed along pretty smoothly over the summer and into the fall. After Halloween, though, Pudding’s skin wasn’t as moist as it had been, and she didn’t move around as much. I thought this was due to the cool temperatures in our house and the fact that Pudding may be going into a dormant winter phase. Again, not being able to extrapolate a newt’s well-being by its facial expression and body language, I was at a loss.
On the morning of November 10, 2011, I came downstairs to feed my daughter and get her ready to catch the bus to school. As usual, I went to Pudding’s container to check on her and drop in a food pellet or two. That morning, it was clear to me Pudding was dead as a doornail.
My dilemma: Do I tell my daughter immediately about this situation, or do I wait and tell her after school? She usually checked on Pudding each morning, and I didn’t want her to see the dead carcass before she had heard the news. But, if she didn’t check on her, she didn’t really need to know right then, and I could delay the emotional response until after the school day was complete. Then again, if she did notice Pudding and I hadn’t told her, she would be devastated that I had tried to hide it from her. It was pretty much a lose-lose situation, so I decided to just get it over with and tell her.
My daughter Addie came downstairs, and I told her as gently as I could that Pudding had died. Tears and sorrow came pouring out of her little body. Her first question, in between sobs, was, “Do you think she had a good death? Did she suffer?” I told her that Pudding had a good life here — probably much longer of a life than she might have had in the woods. I told her that she had taken good care of Pudding and that Pudding surely knew that Addie loved her. I told her that salamanders didn’t live more than a season, and it was just what happens to salamanders in the fall and winter. (This may not be scientifically accurate, but it was a comfort to my little one, so please feel free not to send me links on the longevity of newts.)
I sent an email to Addie’s teacher, alerting her of this sad event, just so she would be prepared. We tried to make it look like Addie had not been weeping before she got on the bus. That day at school, Addie visited the “feelings counselor” and talked to her about Pudding.
When she came home, we placed Pudding’s tissue-wrapped body in a small jewelry box with some newt bites, leaves and sticks, and a pebble on which Addie had drawn a small heart. Addie found a large, smooth rock to use as a grave marker and decorated it. We decided to bury Pudding under the rose bush in our garden. It was still flowering, so Addie picked a bloom and placed it on Pudding’s resting place. Each of us (both kids and I) shared a memory of Pudding.
And that was that.
R.I.P. Pudding
Spring 2011 — 11/10/2011
