On the evening of July 4, Duder, my guinea pig, shut his eyes for the final time.

I've written about Duder before. When a friend of mine no longer wanted the little guinea pig, I offered to take him. Random roommates would hate him because he would wake them up on hungover mornings with his chattering or his cage would stink due to my occasional laziness in cleaning his cage. An ex-boyfriend consistently referred to Duder as "that rat" - it was destined to not work out. No, because perhaps the only tried and true man in my life was the little rodent.

Duder had his fair share of quirks. I wrote a column about Duder when I was afraid he was too fat - many of you wrote in, sharing your guinea pig knowledge with me (and thank you!). Unlike most guineas, he didn't like the fresh veggies I'd give him. He didn't like to run around either, like most guinea pigs like to do. The man liked to chew, though, but mostly on plastic and cardboard (no, I did not feed him plastic and cardboard, but good luck if you'd've left something close to the cage). He was a prude about his food, normally picking through whatever he was given for the corn and the sunflower seeds. He hated to be picked up but relented if you cradled him.

But when I noticed he hadn't eaten his breakfast one afternoon, I knew something had to be up. I'd just switched his food, opting for a brand I knew he wouldn't like but was readily available at the grocery. I figured he was being the jerk I'd always known him as and was refusing to eat what was given to him. So the next day, when he'd refused dinner the day before and breakfast the morning after, I bought his regular food in the hopes that would help. I also changed the bedding in his cage, knowing how much he liked it all clean and fresh, the way he'd hop around like a little breakdancer.

Still no eating.

The next morning, I called the vet. I'd never called a vet for a guinea pig before, so I called one that a reader had actually suggested (thank you to Becky Marciniak). Unfortunately, it was the day of July 4 and the veterinary office was closed for the holiday. They did have a number for the vet on-call in case of an emergency and, knowing my little man hadn't eaten in nearly two days, I decided to call the on-call vet - who was out-of-town. I understand that doctors have lives during the holidays, too, but I don't understand the idea of being on-call while out-of-town.

In any case, the out-of-town, on-call vet suggested hand-feeding Duder via syringe a mix of his food and water that has been run through a blender - at least 60 mL to get him through the weekend, warning me that taking him to the emergency vet would be very expensive. Considering I'd just dropped $475 on my car (don't ask), I decided I'd try to hand-feed and take him to an emergency vet in the morning if he still seemed sick.

The rest of the day quickly went downhill. It seemed as if his breathing slowly deteriorated, like it hurt him to make any noise. He just wanted to burrow into the crook of my elbow or face the back corner of his cage (for no apparent reason, which I later learned was a very bad sign).

I left him for two hours, maybe three. When I returned, the breath had simply gone out of him.

I freaked out. I cried. I screamed lots of half-formed sentences starting with would've, could've, and should've. I decided it was my fault. I still think it's my fault. If I would've recognized how sick he was earlier, I would've taken him to the vet earlier. I should've taken him even though the on-call vet advised me of how expensive it would be - I would've paid anything to have him be okay.

I think the worst part, though, is that he was probably in pain. It probably hurt him to breathe. It probably sucked to have me shove a syringe full of food he didn't want into his mouth.

So now my Duder lies in a Nike shoe box in my boyfriend's mom's backyard, about a foot of dirt on top of him. Though a lot of people tell me I shouldn't blame myself, that it was probably too late anyway, that I couldn't've afforded to take him to the vet, he was my responsibility and I dropped the ball. I'm not one to regret much in my life, but I do regret my actions that week. I should've known. Friends keep suggesting a new guinea pig might brighten my life, but I don't want a new guinea pig. I just want my Duder back.