Last week, a member of the Prever family passed away. It was the first loss of someone in their daily lives that my children have suffered — and another mothering milestone for me.

Candy, one of our three-year-old guinea pigs, had lost a third of her body weight — more skinny pig than guinea pig. The vet could find no palpable lumps nor bumps, so assuming she was having difficulties eating, a dental operation was advised. Her sister, Minnie, accompanied her to the surgery — not for support, but because they will only drink from one (shared) water bottle.

The operation went well and, on waking, Candy was back on the carrots. They kept her in overnight as a precaution, but the next day she deteriorated and, hours later, she passed away.

On hearing the news, I was taken aback by my instant tears — which kept on coming all day. Perhaps some of my months of pandemic trauma have been channelled into guinea pig grief. I managed to contain myself on arrival at the vet’s, but the floodgates opened when I was presented with Minnie in her carrier box and poor Candy in a small cardboard box.

My immediate concern was how to tell the children. They’ve escaped the loss of anyone very close to them — even during the last year. The guinea pigs may be tiny, but during the lockdown months, they were a huge source of daily entertainment and comfort. My animal-loving son is their primary carer and adores them. Guiding him and his sister through this bereavement felt a very grown up thing to have to do. Even going to pick them up was one of those “I’m a parent” moments that you get every so often. The vet gave us the option of bringing Candy home to bury her — or leaving her there for a cremation. I felt the children should decide.

As they were with my parents that day, my mother imparted the sad news. Both children seemed surprisingly nonchalant. My son later told me he’d have preferred to have heard from me at home, as he’d had to hide his feelings from Grandma. In truth, he’s devastated and now continually checks Minnie is alive.

She is, but she’s also grieving. Guinea pigs are social creatures and it’s heartbreaking to see her back turned to the food bowl — mourning the sister she’s never been apart from.

Our attempt at grave-digging was fruitless. We were advised the hole should be four feet deep to avoid Candy becoming fox fodder, but this proved impossible in soil as penetrable as tarmac. Mr P took inspiration from Google, and Candy is now interred within a huge terracotta pot topped with a beautiful plant. We’d have said kaddish, but that’s a right reserved for humans, so we made up a little prayer for our tiny, furry friend.

My maternal urge is to soothe everyone’s heartache, so I hit social media looking for a new companion for Minnie. Today, Tufty is coming for a playdate. She too lost her friend a couple of months ago and is similarly lonely.

The girls are of similar age and we’re hoping it will prove the perfect shidduch.

Failing that, we’ve lined up a young boar, Ziggy, who is also lonely. It feels like guinea pig J-Date.

Hopefully we’ll be able to bring some happiness back to the little creature who helped us through the last 18 months — and whose sister gave my children their first gentle experience of loss.