Tuesday, January 11, 2005
A few months ago, I walked into a pet superstore and emerged with two guinea pigs. A few months later, on this particular morning, I woke to a piquant smell that reminded me of long-forgotten public pools and New York subways. You see, gentle reader, I adhere to a twice weekly schedule of cleaning their cage, but for some reason they’ve been extra smelly recently.
This will necessitate a third litter changing, and I’ve narrowed the cause down to two possibilities: either guinea pig constitutions aren’t built for Cinnamon Toast Crunch (the kind with 75% less sugar, don’t you fret), or they’ve been having bottom-of-the-bottle vitamin solution. I’m leaning more toward the latter, because it just occurred to me I haven’t been shaking their vitamin bottle well–or at all, come to think of it–for the past month or two.
I’m going to swing by the pet store now, but not before introducing my pigs. One looks like a skunk, so I named him Le Pew. He’s slick, slick like a rat, and sports a perennial cowlick sure to woo all the female rodents. I’d even let him out of the apartment once in a while, if he were neutered. The other guinea pig is gray, white, and functionally retarded. He struck me as endlessly fascinating when I first saw him, a four-legged vision of devious brooding perfect for those Byronic moments. Turns out he just likes to sit there and stare aimlessly for hours on end. I named him Falfa, short for Alfalfa and reminiscent of Falla, Roosevelt’s beloved terrier that was prone to being left behind.
They spend their time eating, drinking, sleeping, eating, squeaking loudly for food, eating, defecating, occasionally eating their defecation, and humping each other. That last part doubtlessly piqued your interest, so let me elaborate. Le Pew is usually the aggressor. He will climb on top of Falfa, who simply sits there and continues to think his deep thoughts. Now, my boys never came out to me–I think they decided to skip that step–and the crux of the matter is whether Falfa’s being raped. Since he seems content with not moving, and since he sometimes eats while acting the bitch, I’ve concluded it’s no big deal.
They’re hardy little bastards as well. There was this one time when I left my stove running the entire day, filling my apartment with more carbon monoxide than my detector, which was still at Target in its blister pack, could detect. Le Pew and Falfa lived, believe it or not, and they were hungry. Thank goodness I didn’t light the stove, eh? Then again, I don’t think you can die in a fiery explosion in Wilmette. It’s just not classy enough. The viable options are old age, boredom.