Ah, innocence

There’s something about a Guinea pig that reminds me of the oxytocin rush we experience when looking at a newborn. I experience a gentle flush of protectiveness, an acknowledgement that here is a tiny creature that I am ethically bound to protect, and emotionally entangle myself with to the point of self-sacrifice.

Wandering the aisles of pet supply supermarkets where you can also purchase the pets to go with the supplies, I'm always struck by the utter horror of there being a marketplace for living beings. Putting a price on their little furry heads. Allowing them to be borne off into homes that may or may not be forever, possibly might be hell on toast and in all likelihood will be staffed by well-intentioned humans with little understanding of the psycho-social requirements of their newest guest.

For instance, Guinea pigs need other Guinea pigs. Just as hamsters are solitary to the point of murdering their cage-mates, Guinea pigs are innate prey animals and have absolutely zero defence strategies when mishandled, squeezed or - perish the thought - dropped. They are helpless. Those mahoosive teeth are purely for show. And the chewing of hay, of course.

Pippin, our last and veteran twice-widowed Guinea pig is living out his days in what I sincerely hope is a happy and well-cared-for home. He lumbers away into the back apartment of his luxury two-room hutch when Housekeeping ( me) arrives each morning to turn over his bed, freshen up his hay, remove his magic beans ( poo) pour water, fill his nugget bowls and generally make sure he’s not marinading in last night’s micturitions. Occasionally, he is hauled out for a shallow bath in the kitchen sink, where he endeavours to look as put-upon as possible, followed by looking utterly adorable when swaddled in a fluffy towel to dry off his nethers.

When fresh hay is laid out for his breakfast, he puts on a burst of speed and hurls himself into the front room of his house and straight into the middle of his fresh haystack and remains there, emitting munching sounds for at least an hour before falling fast asleep till lunchtime. By which time my oxytocin levels are off the scale. If there was a human baby within range, I'd probably experience the let-down reflex…

Come evening, we bear him outside and let him loose in his outside run, safe from predators but within chewing distance of all the grass a Guinea pig could possibly desire. He patrols the policies, nibbling a blade here, a blade there, before settling down to some serious browsing in a patch of dappled shade.

This feels like we’re keeping up our end of the bargain. Caring for a small being, especially one who would naturally run free with his herd in some South American grasslands, is a huge responsibility. Sharing his life is a real privilege. I absolutely dread the day he joins his two compadres and two predecessors under the birches in our garden.

But let’s not dwell on such sadnesses for now. It’s summer, the grass is long and green and the days are full of hay…

and it is with the deepest of Guinea pig love and respect that I offer this week’s cartoon. Fortunately Pippin will never know what liberties I'm taking with his person. FYI, the cat is purely fictional.

personal portfolio work: handmade by me with ink, charcoal, pencil and chalk