Vien Nguyen mourns the loss of his pet chinchilla, Rice Boy and how the memories will stay with him.
My chinchilla named Rice Boy wasn’t the cuddly type. He didn’t like being held. He preferred his cage, mushroom house, exercise wheel and keeping his distance. But he had his own ways of showing up. Most days when I came home from work, he’d wake up and turn slowly, grab the bars of his cave, and let out a giant yawn.
When I offered him hay, he’d pick up each straw with great fervor, nibble it, then drop it on the floor. He was picky. Ten years ago, right around the time the Outside Lands Music Festival was flooding San Francisco with sound and color, he unfortunately got sick. I never learned the diagnosis, but knew something was off that day. He wasn’t eating much and was lethargic.
A part of me sensed he wouldn’t make it. At the vet, I let him roam on the exam table. After a quick checkup, we waited for the tech to come take him inside. And then, something happened. For the first and only time, he crawled into my hands. As if it was his way of saying goodbye. I held him gently, kissed the top of his head like I did many times before and soon enough, they brought him inside. That would be the last time I saw him conscious.
Driving home, I cried. It wasn’t just grief—it was the weight of a connection I didn’t have words for. I understand how memories are made. I also know what neurodegeneration can erase. And yet, I believe this bond with this little creature will outlast all of that.