I had five pets before I was six years old. I didn’t know that pets were not supposed to come and go with such frequency. To what was I to measure my experience? I was a very tactile child after all. I only knew that which I could put my hands on, that which I could see and feel. My tactile nature is probably what made my love for “Turtle” and “Trumpet” run deep.

Turtle was a small box turtle that I fed lettuce and rolly-poly bugs to. I kept an eye on him, and moved him when necessary. I pressed my face to the ground to be eye level with him. I watched in fascination as he waddle-crawled along the ground.

“He’s like a tiny dinosaur mom!”

Mom’s answer was a light nod and silent smile.

I loved dinosaurs, and I loved my little one. I was devastated when he got lost. I don’t know how long I searched the yard and garden, mistaking every second stone for my friend. It seemed like forever. I called to him with lettuce in my hand.

Trumpet was a ginger and white guinea pig. He sat in my lap while I gently stroked his head. He occasionally bobbed his head and made a sound, a high-pitched rolling whistle of a trill. That was how I came upon his name. He was my tiny trumpet.

I understood his calls. There weren’t many. My favorite was when he responded to the sound of my voice. After we greeted each other I’d run over to speak to and pet my beloved little friend. He always bucked his approval before waddling around his litter strewn box. Then he would sit with me and listen intently as I told him every story, real or imagined, that I knew. I cherished the times we shared.

One day our familiar routine took a turn. Trumpet was not himself. I called to him the way I always did. His response was a short, clipped cry. I ran over in alarm, asking what was wrong. He could only stand and shiver silently. I dropped to my knees, picked my friend up and carefully placed him in my lap. I cradled him, holding him quietly until the shivering stopped. He trilled gratefully as we sat together.

To my great joy, he snuggled in closer. “You just get comfortable buddy!” I said, pulling my hoodie around him. He got all the way in between my shirt and overalls. I giggled happily as he made himself comfortable. Together we sat, eating baby carrots and watching TV. It was the happiest day of my little life thus far.

“Aubrey, we need to leave. Go get ready, sweetie.”

I looked into Trumpets big black eyes as he nibbled on a piece of carrot.

“I can’t go, mom. Trumpet needs me,” I said, concerned. “I just got him to stop shivering.”

My mother looked down at the two of us and said, “Trumpet will be okay without you for awhile.” She walked to Trumpet’s box and folded in a few towel rags and other cover for my pet.

“Here, now Trumpet has something to help keep him warm. He’ll be okay.”

I protested and pleaded all the way out the front door. As I left, I looked over my shoulder at the box Trumpet called home. I called to him and received the familiar trilled response. Maybe it will be okay, I thought. After all, Moms know stuff. She couldn’t be wrong about this.

She didn’t know everything. It was not okay.

When we returned, I came through the front door calling expectantly. Silence was my answer. I ran to Trumpet’s box and saw him lying there, so still. I reached in to stroke his nose and his whole body moved stiffly at my touch. I knew my friend was dead.

My heart broke. Tears streamed down my face.

“Mooooommm!” I wailed. “Trumpet’s dead!” I cried. She stood behind me, looking down over my shoulder, and sighed in resignation. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie. Trumpet is gone.”

I turned, buried my face into her legs and bawled. I remember trying to say ‘I told you so’ but all I could muster were broken syllables between sobs. I think she realized that there was nothing that she could say. So my Mom said nothing and just held me, stroking my back in reassurance.

I cried myself to sleep that night. When I awoke, the silence was shattering. I went to my mom with fresh tears. I had a dream, an idea, a spark of hope.

“Mom, do you think…,” I mulled over the question so that I would ask it right. As if wording it correctly would make it come true.

“Do you think that Santa could bring Trumpet back?” I looked up to her, pleading. There just had to be a way, there had to be.

She looked down to me and sighed deeply before saying, “Oh, Aubrey.” She seemed to be gathering her own thoughts before replying.

“How big is the world?” I thought this was a strange question. So strange, in fact, that it momentarily derailed my entire train of thought.

“Really, really big,” I replied. “Like so super big that it would take forever to go around.”

Mom nodded in approval. “Okay, good. That’s right. Now how many children could be in a place as big as that?”

I looked at her and said in whatever words a child knows that the number was beyond counting.

“That’s right,” she continued, “and in a world that big, with that many children, how long do you think it would it take to visit each one of their houses?”

I stood stunned in sudden realization. I stared straight ahead into infinity, now finite.

“You, you mean…,”

I hated to say it. It ended my hopes.

“You mean, Santa’s not real!?” I asked as much as I answered.

“No, Aubrey. I’m sorry, he’s not.”

I went back to bed, and slept a dreamless night.

The next day my mother put Trumpet’s remains in a shoebox and buried him at the base of a tree in the front yard. She covered the box with dirt and a few stones of my choosing.

“You know, you can come out here and visit him anytime you want,” she said.

I hung my head. I felt so small.

“Oh-oh-kaay.”

I vowed to myself at that moment to never forget my friend. I guess there are some childhood promises that you keep.