Friends Don't Let Friends Buy Guinea Pigs

I wrote this last summer, shortly after the movie release of G Force. It's pretty self-explanatory.

Usually I am not the type to follow the crowd. In fact, the fastest way to make me not do something is to tell me, “Everyone’s doing it.” It’s not that I strive to be a rebel but I find a certain charm and class to achieving a dynamic and pleasing result that is also unique. That being said, when I told SM that Sophie and I were going to see the new Disney movie “G-Force”, he simply had no idea we would detour on the way home and spend over $80 in guinea pig paraphernalia, complete with guinea pig. He had no warning. Poor guy. In my defense, I really had been thinking about getting a hamster, gerbil, guinea pig, or some other such small and minimally invasive animal in our lives. After all, with two children, a cat, and a dog we were practically starved for things to do, right? Right.

Our tour of duty in the pet store reminded me of that scene from “Turner and Hooch” where Tom Hanks’ character gets hoodwinked by the store manager into spending a small fortune for a temporary canine guest with terrible manners. You could practically see the stars in our salesman’s eyes. “Ah!” he clearly thought, rubbing his hands together and chuckling evilly. “Amateurs!” It didn’t help that Sophie was hopping up and down and squealing wildly because she was there to take advantage of Mommy’s temporary insanity. (By the way, guinea pigs exhibit this same behavior. It’s called “popcorning” and it means they’re really, really happy. No duh, Buckwheat.) While we were there, no fewer than two salespeople asked if we’d seen “G-Force.“ I tried to defend myself by repeating that I’d actually been thinking of doing this for a while, but clearly I did not convince them, as their knowing grins testified. So, anyway, trying to be a responsible and sensitive pet owner starting from scratch, I quizzed the salesman. “So do guinea pigs need certain toys to keep them challenged and mentally stimulated?” I braced myself for a dissertation on the 1001 ways to keep a guinea pig happy and productive. The salesman said, “Nope.” Huh. OK. Next question: “Would getting one be all right, or do they really crave companionship?” The salesman said, “No, not really, one‘s OK.” Interesting. I said, “So what, then, exactly do they do?” and the salesman gave me the guinea pig creed: “Eat, poop, and sleep.” I couldn’t believe it. I had finally found the furry equivalent of a Pet Rock. So you’d THINK that I wouldn’t have to spend a fortune to keep a pet rock happy, right? NOT. Ch-ching, ch-ching. And so we drove home with a loaded trunk and a freaked-out guinea pig scrambling in circles in his little cardboard box on Sophie's lap.

When we got home SM opened the door and just stared. Sophie was absolutely convinced that he would share her joy at a new pet. I wasn’t nearly as certain. I had done something fairly unforgivable. I had brought home a new pet without consulting the other Parental Unit. That’s bad. I was a bad girl. Shame on me. So when SM asked how much it all cost, I snuggled up to him and whispered sweet nothings in his ear. He wasn’t fooled for one second but Sam and Sophie began jumping up and down shrieking, “Let him out, Daddy, let him out!” I’m sure this contributed beautifully to our poor new guy’s state of mind, as the cardboard box began vibrating like a washing machine on the spin cycle. I thought he was about to bust out and fly to the Mother Ship. So we quickly got his new cage in tip-top shape. He had fresh bedding, clean water, pellets, timothy hay, and these wooden shapes that were flavor-infused with fruit. What more could a Pet Rock ask for? So once Smudge (his new name, as his coloring suggested he’d sat in poop) was settled in his new home, I began trawling the Internet for “How to keep a guinea pig happy and healthy.” After about a half-hour I’d discovered some essential facts, most of which indicated that the salesman had either lied through his teeth or didn’t know what he was talking about. Nice. So I researched to find a good guide to guinea pigs and ordered it via expedited shipping, just because I’m anal that way, and found out what food I SHOULD be using, what bedding I SHOULD have bought, and began putting serious thought into the other guinea pig I SHOULD have brought home with Smudge. So the next day Sophie and I went back to the pet store. I was determined to take everything that place told me with a grain of salt…or maybe a whole shaker’s worth…and try to be a more savvy buyer.

You know, sometimes I think the most admirable trait I have is that I wake up every day with the same amount of boundless optimism, regardless of how badly I failed by bedtime the night before.

So back we went to the pet store. I found another cage, as the one we’d gotten was really only big enough for one piggy. SM said he could hook two together and make a nice enclosure for both piggies. (Yes, I’d warned him this time that I was getting another one. I may be crazy but I ain’t stupid.) So the first thing I looked for was a vitamin C supplement. I’d read that it’s really not good to put it in the water, as the pet store had suggested, but rather get a vitamin C-enriched food or a tablet to crush in their food. But I couldn’t find the tablets. A different salesman approached and when I asked about the vitamin supplement, he suggested the water-based one. “But the literature I’ve been reading doesn’t recommend that,” I said. He stated that that’s what they used on their guinea pigs, or at least what they used to use. Now they used the crushed tablets. “Great!” I said. “That’s what I want! Where is it?” “We don’t sell it,” he replied. (OK, Steph, just breathe deeply and count to 10.) About then the previous day’s saboteur - I mean salesman - approached and smiled brightly, as well he might. It’s not often a gold mine walks into your store two days in a row. So we told him we were going to get another guinea pig and he nodded solemnly, exuding wisdom and the master’s approval for a student doing the right thing, as if he had not pooh-poohed this very idea only 24 hours ago. “Good idea,” the Evil One said. We already knew which one we wanted, and when we pointed it out, the Master of Lies handed me another whopper, and I’m sorry to say I swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. (I’m not usually this stupid. I must be getting ready to start or something.) He said, “I’m glad you picked this one out, because he’s a littermate of the one you bought yesterday.” I was so relieved I didn’t stop to consider the source, and we trundled away with Life Mistake #2. (One day I hope to hear statistics on guinea pig sales before and after the release of “G-Force.”)

So when we got home SM put the two cages together for a nice, clear passage and we let Skittles (his new name, as he was very skittish) go. It’s like Smudge suddenly woke up. He’d been fairly sweet and sociable with us but he epitomized the Pet Rock: he just sat there. When Skittles entered the cage, though, all that changed. It was as though Smudge was electrified. I was not surprised because not only did he now have a fellow piggy, but it was one he knew (and was supposedly related to). Hot dog! Life’s good in the cage, right? So SM, Sam, Sophie, and I were all standing there, watching this joyful reunion. My children were eye-level with the cage and were soaking it in. Then Smudge began chasing Skittles all over the cage. We laughed appreciably. Smudge sniffed Skittles’ butt vigorously. We all said, “Ewwwwwww!” and then…it happened. How do I put this delicately? Hmmm. Let’s just say that Skittles was subjected to an indignity that no male guinea pig should have to endure. Repeatedly. Energetically. About 12 inches from my children’s faces. SM and I looked at each other in horror. Had we gotten a female by mistake? Were we about to usher in an entire generation of guinea pigs? Was there any way to convince our insurance company to pay for the births and maternity care? We were in shock. We shoo’d the kids away from the Cage of Fornication and told them to go burn out their retinas on something else. I called a friend, who laughed so hard I thought she was going to hurt herself. Thanks a lot, I thought grimly. The pet store was closed. So how, I thought frantically, does one sex a guinea pig? Well, I found out: the same way you sex any other animal. With good eyesight and a sense of humor. I did a search on the Internet (as my handy-dandy guide was still on order) for the phrase, “How to tell a male guinea pig from a female” and came up with what has to be the only piggy porn site on earth. There was absolutely no holding back, no delicacy on this web site. Perhaps it was a medical site. I’m not sure. I was so overwhelmed by the absurdity of what we were doing, the surreal quality of staring at piggy butts, and just how much hinged on getting it right. I’d told Sophie that if Skittles was a girl, we were going to take her back and let her have her babies with another really nice family who’d keep every single blessed baby and treat them like gods. While SM and I did our “research” she was standing by the cage, staring mournfully at Skittles and willing him/her to have boy parts. So we really had to get this right. Guess what? Adult guinea pigs…at least, OUR adult guinea pigs…were powerfully, vibrantly, and proudly able to show their true colors. We did indeed have two males. And the guide assured us that this was just a pecking-order thing (no pun intended) and not to worry.

This wasn't really how I'd intended to spend my Sunday night. I guess it serves me right for impulse-buying.