Memories of Whiskey the chinchilla

There was a time I didn’t own two dachshunds. I was in my twenties, and living in Rochester, New York. I was there because of a girlfriend who was going to college at a local university. At some point she decided she wanted a pet, and she, well we, ended up with a chinchilla.

We decided to name him Whiskey, because of a silly word play on the word ‘whiskers.’ The little guy was flat out adorable. As you might expect from a rodent whose pelt is made into uber-expensive coats, Whiskey’s fur wasn’t just soft, it was guaranteed to make you say “oooooh” and “aaaaaaah,” or your money back. Compared to Whiskey, cashmere was 20 grit sandpaper. Holding him was a singularly odd experience, because you didn’t even realize what you were holding until your fingers had sunk inches through his thick fur to his tiny, soft little body.

When the girlfriend and I broke up, I got custody of the little mountain squirrel. I didn’t mind at all. He was a fun pet. Whiskey was affectionate, loved darting around my room, chewing on speaker cable and very expensive headphones. When he wasn’t exploring, he liked being held, and especially snuggled near my face. I think he liked my beard.  Chinchillas are very clean animals, but they don’t bathe in the traditional sense. Instead, Whiskey had a bowl of superfine, volcanic ash that he’d roll in, then shake himself off. He loved to eat shelled peanuts. I, in turn, loved watching him eat shelled peanuts.

I’d give him a little peanut. He’d sit back on his haunches near the front of the cage, hold a horizontal bar with one front paw, and with the other, grasp the peanut as if it was a peeled banana, munching on it slowly and (there’s no other way to put this) thoughtfully. He’d gaze into the middle distance, as if contemplating the sublime joy of the exalted peanut.

Chinchillas are bred to live in high, mountainous terrain, and they like cool climates. I knew that it was important that his living space not become too warm, but unfortunately one weekend I was out of town. While I was away, the outside temperature climbed into the high 90's, and the powerful air conditioner that cooled the room broke down. I found Whiskey had overheated. Through steady tears and sniffles, I buried him in the back yard, under a big rhododendron bush.

He was only around for about three or four years, but I still think about Whiskey from time to time, and smile. Through him, I came to understand that good things do indeed come in small packages.

Photo credit: Chinchilla (not Whiskey), gotpetsonline.com

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