How are you supposed to act at a guinea pig funeral?

Last week, my wife texted to let me know we’d had a death in the family.

“Ramona is gone,” she wrote.

I texted back right away: “Sorry to hear it. RIP Ramona.”

Then I went back to work and didn’t think about it for the rest of the day.

That evening I came home and noticed a box on the table in the foyer. I lifted the lid and felt a chill. It was Ramona’s dead body.

Ramona was our guinea pig.

She joined our family at Christmas more than three years ago after her previous owner’s family got tired of dealing with pet allergies. We “re-gifted” her to our 11-year-old son, who enthusiastically welcomed her into the family.

Me, not so much.

Ramona was already about 100 years old in human years. She didn’t play fetch or go on walks, and if you took her outside you’d just rile up the local raptor population.

Really all she could do was sit in one of our laps while we watched TV, just staring straight ahead. I think the day God designed the guinea pig he outsourced the job to Pixar. Ramona was basically a stuffed cartoon animal, except when she relieved herself on you, which was quite often.

My wife loved Ramona, though, especially after our daughter left for college and Bess was stuck with four males in what started smelling more and more like a frat house.

That’s when Bess began talking cheerfully to Ramona – a bit more cheerfully than she talked to me or my three sons, who, granted, didn’t deserve any pleasantries – and saving her celery stalks and carrot peels and the insides of bell peppers.

So it was Bess who took it the hardest when Ramona died of old age, and it was Bess who organized the funeral.

I’d secretly hoped all the arrangements had been handled and executed by the time I arrived home, but there was Ramona on the table, with a shovel leaning up against the wall.

It was pitch dark when our two sons got home. (Our third son has joined his sister in college.) We opened the flashlight apps on our phones and marched into the woods.

We weren’t sure what to do next. When your children grow up and leave home, the family has to adjust and the remaining children must sometimes step up and assume new roles.

Our daughter would have selected poems and songs, and our oldest son would have dug the grave.

Instead, Bess had googled the guinea pig poems, and our youngest son hacked at the earth with the shovel and several other tools while our middle son supervised.

Then we laid Ramona to rest and covered the box with dirt.

We took turns reading the guinea pig poems. Here are some sample lines: “If you cuddle one everyday/ All your blues will melt away./ The ones who pass from our lives/ We remember with tear-filled eyes.”

And: “If you want less stress and to have fun/ I recommend a guinea pig for everyone!”

At this point, one of my sons asked, “Hey, Dad, did you write this?”

“No!” I said testily.

Then we sang “You are my Sunshine.” That’s when I realized I’d never been to a pet funeral before.

I’ve always thought of “You are my Sunshine” as a corny song. “Can we do any better than that?” I asked.

That’s when my youngest son started belting out the hymn “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence” in an exaggeratedly ominous tone.

We laughed and laughed. Then we hugged each other and went inside to eat dinner.

I’m not sure how a guinea pig funeral is supposed to work, but this one felt just about perfect.

This story was originally published April 28, 2017 at 6:00 PM with the headline "How are you supposed to act at a guinea pig funeral?."