Yesterday evening, I went over to my dad’s house to say hello on my way to work as I hadn’t seen him for a couple of days. When I opened the front door he was stood there waiting for me. He said “Dan I’m really sorry but Bernard has gone” and he took my shoulders in his hands. Bernard, the family’s guinea pig, had died peacefully of old age at about 6 1/2 years old in the afternoon of the same day. As both me and my mum, to whom he technically joint belongs to were travelling home from Plymouth that day dad decided to wait until we got home to tell us in person.
What must be understood is that Bernard was not like people think when you say “I’ve got a guinea pig”. He wasn’t a novelty, a thing on the side like people generally think about guinea pigs. We’d had him in the family for about 4 years, my mum has a 2X3 foot printout of him curled up in the under stairs cupboard, I’ve got two framed pictures of him on my wall in my bedroom at my dad’s house; me and my dad referred to each other as ‘Bernie’ and everyone in the family loved him as much as people love their dogs or cats. We imagined a life for him based on his personality traits, nicknaming him the ‘king of the guinea pigs’. We’d had and lost guinea pigs before him but he was always regarded as the special one, and is why we aren’t getting any more.
When my dad first told me, I didn’t really feel anything significant, unlike the way I reacted which I’d imagined the moment when I found out he died. Although this might seem slightly morbid, he was getting very old and I’d begun to see the signs that surfaced before the deaths of our previous guinea pigs – he was getting a bit slower, taking less interest in his food, spending a lot of time hidden in the hay and when we had him out for a cuddle he would just be contented to sit there, hunkered down with his eyes half-closed. He lived a long and happy life and died as peacefully as a guinea pig can die – asleep and warm in the hay. I’d imagined myself crying, trying to deny it, feeling really down for several days if not weeks after like I had when the previous pigs passed away.
But I didn’t. I didn’t really feel anything. Slight annoyance that I wouldn’t be able to see him again but I didn’t feel this emotion any more violently than that moment when you finish a bag of crisps and are annoyed at the inconvenience that there are no more crisps to eat. It obviously wasn’t a moment of happiness, but I wouldn’t describe it as a moment of sadness either. As I was on my way to work, I didn’t really have time to dwell on the news, unlike my poor mum who spent the evening in floods of tears. Going to work, although it didn’t feel it at the time, was the best thing that I could have done at the time. It not only provided a distraction, but also gave me a chance to get out of the house that was filled with sorrow and into the firm, secure environment of my workplace. Going to work gave me a chance to reflect on Bernard’s death, but not to the extent that I would grow intensely sad. I approached it from a Buddhist perspective.
I told myself that my attachment to him caused my negative feelings, and, although a bit of a cliche, a warm rush sort of went through me and provided me with a great relief. I thought, dwelling in these negative feelings, withdrawing from the world or even going on a complete binge (as I had thought of doing) were not going to help me or Bernard in any way. Equally, if I go around moping and feeling sad I’m likely to bring everyone around me down, which would not be fair at all. I’m not trying to deny my feelings, just rationalise them and think of my Buddhist beliefs in relation to them. Just as external things cannot make me truly happy, neither can external things make me truly sad. All of existence is inherently empty, and my reaction in my mind to his death is completely down to me. These thoughts gave me extreme satisfaction and comfort, unlike anything I had experienced, and is why today I was able to have a fairly normal day, getting on with the things I needed and wanted to do without a trace of sadness. Bernard’s death still hangs over the house like a heavy mist, but that is only because of the behaviour of the other people in it. Even though he is not yet buried, I still feel like I’m over his death, like I just skipped the period of mourning that is to be expected in such circumstances. In fact, the only thing I’m slightly concerned about is appearing too cold and unfeeling to my beloved pet, that I’m getting over death so easily. I will have to explain to my family that the reason for this is because of my Buddhists beliefs, but even then they may not understand or fully grasp it. It is not that I don’t love him, it’s that I believe happiness and sadness comes from within, not without. I do love him, and I will miss him, but that is not the same as spending all day crying, doing nothing but absent mindedly watching TV and eating Ben & Jerry’s, as they expect me to do.
It is fair to say I had tried to maintain a loving and content mind when it came to everyday sufferings – like being a bit late, a bit tired, having an essay to write etc, but this was the first true test to my new found Buddhist beliefs. Was it all just a nice theory but when it came down to it in real life it was just a load of philosophical nonsense designed to make people feel better? Well, no, it isn’t. My beliefs truly gave me comfort and enabled me to not only avoid feelings of sadness, but gain feelings of happiness as I knew external things don’t contribute to my feelings, an extremely powerful concept.
Thank you very much for reading and my compassion and wisdom guide you through suffering.
Tiny Buddhist - Views of a Young Budhist in the UK 