[thenightwriterblog] The Night Writer: On his last (stubby) legs

[notify at powerblogs.com]

Posted by The Night Writer:
On his last (stubby) legs
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1180394142.shtml


   No, this isn't a post about [1]Strommie the would-be polygamist who
   may or may not be being hunted by Kevin, but about another member of
   the family -- our failing guinea pig, Piggy-Wiggy.
   He's not eating which, given his normal appetite, is either a sign of
   the apocalypse or of ill health. He's not taken a morsel for two days,
   even when enticed with succulent dandelion stems, the crispiest
   greenbeans or even his favorite treat -- a Tic-Tac (the sound of a
   skaken plastic dispenser half-full of mints usually brings him
   storming eagerly to the bars of his cage). I suppose if eating your
   own excrement was a regular part of your diet you might look forward
   to a Tic-Tac or two as well.
   Don't misunderstand -- this has been a well-fed piggy-wiggy. He
   recently finished chewing his way through an entire bale of [2]Timothy
   Hay, and the Reverend Mother has always prepared him a lovely
   breakfast salad of fresh greens and cucumber, while our yard has never
   wanted for dandelions, which I think he liked because the little fuzzy
   seeds tickled his nose.
   He's at least seven years old, which we've learned is a ripe old age
   for a guinea pig. We've had him for four years or so, and rescued him
   from a home with heavy smokers. The white parts of his fur were yellow
   when we got him and it took a couple of shampoos to restore his
   natural tones. He was especially lethargic this morning, which the
   Reverend Mother noticed and reported to the girls, along with the
   warning to prepare themselves. The Mall Diva and Tiger Lilly were
   distraught, and took turns sitting with him in their laps for over an
   hour this morning, working their way through a box of Kleenex in much
   the same way he used to work his way through a bag of baby carrots.
   He's always been a paranoid guinea pig, convinced that everything
   wanted to eat him, dashing into his plastic pigloo at the slightest
   disturbance and acting as if a warm bath was some kind of sinister
   marinade. This may have been hard-wired into his genes. My
   sister-in-law, who is from Ecuador, was bemused to find we had a
   guinea pig for a pet. She said her grandmother, who raised guinea
   pigs, would have thought we were as strange as someone who kept, say,
   a rooster for a pet. That's because her grandmother raised GPs for
   food, not companionship.
   This morning, however, our pig seemed resigned and rested quietly with
   the girls, making an occasional grunt of contentment as they stroked
   his fur. They eventually had to put him back in his cage as they
   prepared for their expedition today, and I've been monitoring him
   since then; this is more of a hospice, not a hospital -- I'll be sure
   he's as comfortable as can be, but there'll be no heroic
   life-preserving interventions.
   Then again, he might just pull out of it, declare that he's feeling
   better and that he thinks he'll go for a walk. If he should, however,
   expire today it will be an odd Memorial Day coincidence to go along
   with our last cat dying on Valentine's Day earlier this year.
   I'll leave it to the Diva or Tiger Lilly to provide updates, if
   they're able. No one likes to see his children cry, and I feel sadder
   for them than for Piggy-Wiggy, who - face it - has had a good run.
   Right now I'm reminded of a poem I came across and saved a couple of
   years ago right about the time our hamster took his last spin around
   the exercise wheel.

     Forty-One, Alone, No Gerbil
     In the strange quiet, I realize
     thereâs no one else in the house.
     No bucktooth mouth pulls at a stainless-steel teat, no
     hairy mammal runs on a treadmillâ
     Charlie is dead, the last of our childrenâs half-children.
     When our daughter found him lying in the shavings, trans-mogrified
     backwards from a living body into a bolt of rodent bread
     she turned her back on early motherhood
     and went on single, with nothing. Crackers, Fluffy, Pretzel,
     Biscuit, Charlie,
     buried on the old farm we bought
     where she could know nature. Well, now she knows it and it sucks.
     Creatures she loved, mobile and needy, have gone down stiff and
     indifferent,
     she will not adopt again
     though she cannot have children yet,
     her body like a blueprint
     of the understructure for a womanâs body,
     so now everything stops for a while,
     now I must wait many years
     to hear in this house again the faint
     powerful call of a young animal.
     -- by Sharon Olds, from The Wellspring © Alfred A. Knopf.

References

   1. http://www.ourhouseblog.com/2007/05/i-am-in-love-with-mall-diva.php#comments
   2. http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1140204959.shtml