Our guinea pigs both died. They were five and half years old. Angel died first and within two weeks Trixie followed. (The names were chosen by my kids so if you’re sniggering, you’re sniggering at children and you can be sent to hell for that). Anyway, they were sisters from the same litter and they’d never been apart so you could say that Trixie couldn’t bear living without her life partner.
The kids cried but I cried the most. It was me who tended to them, cleaned their hutch, fed and watered them, put them in their run every day. My kids cried for about half an hour tops . . . then asked if we could get a dog.
I won’t do it again . . . keep a small animal like that. It’s cruel. Those creatures were stuck in their hutch or their small run for all of their little lives. We brought them indoors now and then but they always seemed petrified so they didn’t visit for long. And they never got the chance to mate, reproduce, forage for their own food. They were prevented from doing all the things that are instinctive to them, just for our pleasure.
But I think I’m going to get a cat next. A little moggy from a rescue centre. And if it’s a she-cat, I’m going to allow her to have kittens. And when she does have kittens, I’m not going to snatch them away from her while they’re still sucking at her nipples and disperse them out to dreadful families who’ll terrorise them. No, I’m going to let my little moggy keep all her kitties. Then I’m going to let them have kittens too until we are overrun with cats. I’ll become that strange, reclusive woman and the kids on the estate will call me witch and cat-woman and will throw stuff through my letterbox or play knick-knock at my door.
My husband once said that the minute a cat comes into our house, he’s leaving. Hmm. . . cat/husband? Husband/cat? It’s a tough one, that.
I think we’ll call her Bella.