Trixsy’s Final Ride: The Great Rat Adventure of 1960

Trixsy’s Final Ride: The Great Rat Adventure of 1960

It was the summer of 1960, and I swear the sun was closer to the Earth than usual, like it had a personal grudge against anyone foolish enough to leave their house. But there we were, heading out on a two-week vacation in the trusty Oldsmobile, which was a fine car if you didn’t mind driving a mobile oven. Air conditioning? Ha! That was for rich folks and movie stars. We had nature’s air conditioning—windows down and hope for the best.

Gary, my ten-year-old son, was in the passenger seat, which in those days was basically an invitation to get baked alive. I could tell by the way his hair was plastered to his forehead that the poor kid was roasting. But there was something more concerning than the heat—Gary was muttering something over the wind. I could barely hear him with the windows down and that wing-window open, but it sounded like he was saying “Trixsy” over and over again.

Trixsy, I should mention, was not the name of a toy, or even a cat. No, Trixsy was Gary’s pet rat. A rat. A white, beady-eyed rodent that Gary loved more than any kid should love something that belongs in a sewer. And because nobody in their right mind would agree to take care of a rat for two weeks, Trixsy had to come with us on this trip.

As I craned my neck to listen to Gary, his muttering turned into a frantic scream. “Trixsy! Trixsy! TRIXSY!” That was my cue to yank the Olds off the highway before the kid had a full-blown meltdown.

I pulled over, and the Oldsmobile came to a screeching halt, spewing dust and pebbles like a wild stallion. I hadn’t even come to a complete stop before Gary was out of his seat and into the back, ripping open Trixsy’s cage like a man possessed. My heart sank faster than the Olds’ gas mileage—Trixsy wasn’t moving.

There he was, Trixsy, lying on the floor of the cage, looking like he’d had a run-in with the Grim Reaper. I reached over and gently took him out, hoping the little guy was just taking a siesta. I splashed some of my precious, now-lukewarm water on his head and nose, willing him to twitch, wiggle, or do something to show he was still with us. But nothing. Trixsy had taken his final breath.

Now, I didn’t know much about rodents, but I did know that explaining death to a ten-year-old wasn’t going to be easy. The look on Gary’s face was enough to break any father’s heart. I needed to come up with a plan, and fast, because the sun wasn’t going to wait for me to figure out how to console a grieving kid.

“Alright, son,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “I know you loved Trixsy very much. He was a good rat. But this heat… it was just too much for him. I’m really sorry, but Trixsy is gone.”

Gary just stared at me, tears welling up in his eyes. “Gone? You mean… dead?”

“Yeah, Son, I’m afraid so,” I replied, feeling like I’d just kicked a puppy. “Maybe we should have a little funeral for him, huh? Give him a proper send-off?”

Gary nodded, sniffling. The kid had the weight of the world on his shoulders, and here I was about to bury his best friend on the side of the road. I rummaged through the trunk, looking for something to dig with. A shovel would’ve been ideal, but all I had was an old claw hammer from the emergency kit. It wasn’t exactly grave-digging material, but it would have to do.

“Here, Son,” I said, handing him the hammer. “Why don’t you give it a try? You can, uh, get out some of your frustration on the ground.” Not the most therapeutic suggestion, but hey, you work with what you’ve got.

Gary took the hammer and started chipping away at the dirt under a scraggly eucalyptus tree that offered a smidgen of shade. It was like trying to dig a hole in a brick wall, but after what felt like hours, we finally had a small hole. Big enough for Trixsy, anyway.

We gently placed Trixsy in the ground, and Gary insisted on making a little flag to mark the grave. We found some cardboard in the trunk, and I snapped off a branch from the tree. Together, we crafted a makeshift flag and planted it at Trixsy’s final resting place.

“Goodbye, Trixsy,” Gary whispered, his voice trembling. “You were the best rat ever.”

I put my arm around his shoulder, squeezing him tight. “Yeah, he was, Son. He really was.”

With the impromptu funeral over, we got back in the car, a little sunburned and a lot more somber. As I started the engine and pulled back onto the highway, I couldn’t help but glance at Gary. He was staring out the window, lost in thought, probably thinking about all the adventures he and Trixsy would never have.

“Hey, Son,” I said, trying to lighten the mood, “you know, Trixsy’s probably up in Rat Heaven right now, telling all the other rats about how he got to go on a road trip.”

Gary smiled, just a little. “Yeah, Dad,” he said, “I bet he is.”

And with that, we drove on, leaving Trixsy behind under the eucalyptus tree, forever a part of our family’s history—and the reason I’ll never agree to bring a rat on vacation again.