That's My Job

Monkey Rat, my last little girl, is old and sick. Her last infection has left her lungs but entered her nervous system and is affecting her ability to balance and hold her head up, so she's having difficulty moving around, climbing, and eating.

While I was giving her her medicine tonight, I started to feel very sad for my poor girl who was so full of life and is now still lively, but hobbling about and looking a bit bedraggled. I know I will have to say good-bye soon, but I don't want to. In the middle of all this sadness, Monkey Rat had this to tell me:

I'm not made to live a long time, Lady. My normal job is to be born, eat a tasty food, have a lots of babies, eat a more food, and die. But my real job has been to let you take care of me and that's what I'm doing. You've done a good job taking care of me, Lady, and that's good! But I have to go and you have to let me. That is your job, too.