"DAD, COME QUICK! Sugar's not moving!" The cry came one cool March morning while I was clearing a snowdrift blocking the barn door. I paused, uncertain about what I'd heard. "Dad, hurry!" I dropped my shovel and raced to the house. Standing at the doorway, tears welling in his eyes, was my son. In his trembling hands was the rigid corpse of his little buddy. Between sobs, Karl explained how he'd found his hamster motionless in the corner of her cage. "I'll take her from here, son," I said in my First Responder voice. At last, here was a chance to use my emergency training on a real, live (OK, maybe not so live) hamster. Snapping on a pair of rubber gloves, I took the little ball of fur in my hands. I checked for breathing. Nothing. Next, I tried chest compressions, a rather tricky affair on a rodent. Too little pressure, and the tiny heart won't pump. Too much and, well, you can imagine. Karl watched with hopeful eyes as I tried everything short of putting a tiny tube down her throat. Eventually, he resigned himself to the fact that maybe God had other plans for Sugar. Maybe there was a wonderful place with big, colourful exercise wheels and loads of delicious seed treats, where lucky little hamsters go when they die. "Dad, does Sugar have to go into the freezer like all the others?" "That's how we do things, Karl," I said with a smile, gently slipping his former pet into a Ziploc body bag. Our family has a rather morbid tradition that started the first year we moved to the country. Any animal that expires in winter is relegated to the freezer. I know it smacks of Tales from the Crypt or The Addams Family. We've taken to preserving the remains of our beloved Fluffies and Fidos for the winter, snuggling them up next to that frozen rump roast or loaf of tasty homemade bread. Each pet is carefully vacuum-sealed, then placed in a clearly labeled, airtight container in the utility freezer. Come spring, we celebrate the passing. Picture the parade of pets following the hearse, an old red Radio Flyer wagon, out to the pet cemetery at the far edge of the property line. Shaded by majestic elms, the family gathers around the deceased and asks where he or she would like to be interred. When no answer is forthcoming, we leave the decision to a member of the funeral party. Then Dad brings out the spade and gets to work. After we have lovingly laid our "petsicle" to rest, the family says a prayer and sings a verse or two of How Much is that Doggie in the Window? or something appropriate from Cats. To date, there are six white crosses in our pet cemetery. The last one looks a little forlorn; the other markers tower above it. If you look closely, you will be able to read the tiny inscription: Sugar, Small but Mighty, R.I.P. - MARK BEHREND