Not sure about a word count but... here:
I used to have a pet guinea pig named Pumpkin, but it had gotten sick and died. I don't quite remember the exact dialogue, but this is more or less what was said.
"Is it dead?" My brother prodded the tiny little body with the tip of his index finger, a deep furrow between his dark, shaggy brows.
"I don't know," I answered, pinching my nose between my thumb and forefinger. The little guinea pig's beady black eyes glittered under the beam of the flashlight as we peered into its cage. Its brown body fell limp in his hands as he scooped it up. I've never know Pumpkin to play dead. And if she <em>was </em>playing, she was certainly good at it. She even <em>smelled</em> dead.
"You <em>KILLED </em>PUMPKIN!!" he shrieked, the body now dangling from his shaking hands. He dropped our pet on the floor and, tears streaming down his cheeks, disappeared into the kitchen. I stood alone in the living with our dead pet, wondering what if there was anything I could say or do to console my little brother. Sobs came from the kitchen.
My brother had spent almost everyday in front of the cage, staring with wide eyes at Pumpkin, playing with her and talking to her as he were if expecting her to offer a response. He'd spent so much time with her, in fact, there was a little divot in the carpet in front of her cage where he'd stood every single day after hopping off the schoolbus in the afternoons. They'd bonded in a way that the <em>normal</em> people in our family could understand; Pumpkin had captured a piece of his heart I'd only ever managed to brush with the tips of my fingers. From day one, Pumpkin was the one he would confide in, ask for advice, and tell his jokes to. Which, I'd told myself, didn't bother me because, quite frankly, his jokes sucked anyway.
When Dad got home, he helped us bury Pumpkin in the backyard near the vegetable garden, right next to the now-weltering heads of lettuce she used to eat off of back in July whenever Mom wasn't watching.
"You were my best friend, Pumpkin, and if <em>LACEY </em>hadn't fed you spoiled food, you wouldn't be dead. If you come back to haunt somebody, haunt HER," said my brother, kneeling over the grave. Dad and I watched in silence.
"I miss you already," he continued, "and I hope you'll be comfortable here."
I was the one who'd named Pumpkin, fed her, lined her cage, and brushed the tangles out of her fur. So, I got to choose where she would be buried. And so Pumpkin's body lie in the shade of our little willow tree, her grave surrounded by yellow dandelions hand-picked from the front yard (which hadn't been hard, since our yard was choking with them). Her headstone, which Dad had whittled from wood, stuck up from the freshly overturned earth, in which we'd carved her name and a simple little message: <em>We love you. </em>
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From Pumpkin's little spot, she would be shaded from the sun, sheltered from the snow, and lightly sprinkled with rain. From her grave, she would enjoy the sunshine and marvel at the colors of the leaves as the seasons changed, just as we did. Because although she was no longer with us, she will always hold a place in our hearts as a member of our family, and in our eyes, she was just as big as everybody else.
I got kinda carried away lol XD
