Licorice- the Sassy Sausage

So now it's time to talk about Licorice, the longer lived of the two brothers.

Licorice was the larger, more neurotic of the two. He was apt to try and run when you went to pick him up and tended to have "shifty eyes"; as in the whites of his eyes would show in a manner that basically expressed "Oh crap, not again!" He, like his brother was solid black, but a smooth hair. He also had darker eyes and didn't get the "demonic red eye" that Schrapnel got for many flash pics.

It took a while for him to come out of his shell. Mind you, he loved attention, but he didn't really become his own pig until after Schrapnel was long gone. I chalk it up to mellowing with age. One thing that Licorice was NOT ambivalent about, was FOOD. Especially pig food in a dish. His fat little head was buried in the thing so often, that for quite some time he ranked easily as the heaviest of the three pigs.



He was curious, but also easily scared by noises- at least in the beginning, and retained the odd habit of charging around his cage doing laps and figure eights at high speed. He never did this on the floor, so I think it had to relate to his brother being absent from the cage as he only showed that behaviour while alone.

Licorice was a fool for carrots even though he LOVED all veggies and fruits. He had a HUGE sweet tooth. Grapes, apples, cherries, oranges...all were his victims. He enjoyed hay well enough, but a finger carrot or piece of apple was to be cherished for the entire thirty seconds it took to scarf it down. He was the type that could get too excited by eating or drinking and make loud coughing noises.

This pig LOVED to chew on metal. We found this out after he was snuffling at a friend's pocket. My friend took out his keys and dangled them for Licorice, who engrossed himself in chewing on them. This ritual was repeated just about every time he came over. Licorice also loved metal zippers, and managed to unzip my velvet top a few times by just pulling on the tab. Apparently, he also liked to watch videos on the computer as his pig sitter reported after we came back from an out of town visit.



As much as he was neurotic, he was on the flip side, an instigator. Sure, Schrapnel picked on him, but he went back for more. He ASKED for it. He loved to get up into Schrapnel's or Connor's face and burble his ass off. He was especially good at riling up the other pigs when not much was going on. He was never a fighter, just a burbling, dancing, troublemaker. And an enormous flirt.

Licorice was my "purr machine". That pig could burble and dance for a solid half minute without coming up for air. I watched him close up once when he was on my chest, walking towards me and purring. He was vibrating so much that his vision must have been blurry, and was doing this slow serpentine strut while making this face that said "Ah Honey, you KNOW you want some a this" He was the Barry White of pig. It was easy to set him off too- just pet his butt or rub his shoulders and off he went. A good neck rub would keep him going. He'd eventually wear down, but if you gave him a minute to reload, he'd be ready to rumble again.

His rumble dance drove poor Connor crazy sometimes, especially since the display usually ended with Licorice's nose deeply embedded in Connor's butt.

This brings us to another one of Licorice's favorite pastimes, whiffling. (collecting smells)He was a very vocal whiffler, voicing his enjoyment of the nuances of various smells he encountered. If he got wind of a smell, he'd whiffle for a minute straight, and if you tried to distract him he'd go right back or find another smell to obsess about (usually, butt smell from another pig) Sometimes, I think smelling where Connor had been on a towel was almost as good as a carrot.

He loved to hide in his purple castle, or his tubes- and in particular when he was young he loved to put his front feet up on top of the blue tube the brothers shared. I often thought it looked like he was waiting at the bar for a drink or something.



Licorice was a very stretchy pig, and many times I'd find him elongating himself to reach a treat, or hang over his tube, or sniff Connor's butt. This is partially why I called him my sassy sausage, among a billion other nicknames.

He did live up to the sassy sometimes, but he was such a little whiner when it came to nail trimming. He HATED it. He thought we were killing him every time we trimmed them. The modus operandi was my husband trimming, and me holding and distracting him with a carrot. He'd chomp away, but then cry as soon as he felt the clippers even close to his nails. I can't tell you how many times he tried to wiggle away or pull his foot away, making matters worse. It was almost as bad as when I tried to bathe the pigs when they got stinky.

Licorice absorbed smells, not just through his nose, but through his very being. He was such a wallower. Back when I had all three pigs, I tried to control this by bathing them. It didn't last long, and for that I'm quite sure they were all thankful. None of them liked getting lowered into the inch deep warm water in the plastic bin, but Licorice did his best to escape, and CRIED when I tried to gently blow dry him. I found that the best way to get him to smell better was to clean the cage more often, or throw down fresh bedding over the stinky areas he seemed to enjoy laying in constantly.

Like the other pigs, he became more personable the more he got handled. He loved going out for fresh grass in the yard, and was determined to not get put back in the carrier afterwards. He was good at posing for pictures; very patient in that aspect, and loved attention. I used to do a trick called "hypno piggy" with him. I would hold with my hand under his front feet and his butt resting on my right forearm, and slowly pet his head with my left hand. This resulted in his mouth falling open, his eyes closing, and his head (and sometimes front paws) falling back in a piggy trance. I have no idea how we started doing this, it just happened one day. :)

I don't know how pigs are with mirrors, or recognition of themselves, but I suspect Licorice may have understood. I would regularly take him to a mirror, and pet him, holding him next to my face and talking to him about the "handsome mirror pig". His eyes would look from my reflection, and his, to me, and back several times. And as I petted him, he would visibly relax and start "smiling". Whatever he really thought, I could at the very least tell he was happy whenever I did that.

Licorice was the first pig I had who got a bladder stone. It freaked me out, but he passed the stone easily and never had problems again. He was, for the most part, a really solid pig. That is, until we found out he had some tumors when he was four and a half.



It wasn't really a surprise when we heard about them from the vet, after losing his brother to cancer. It was obviously genetic. The difference with Licorice, was his were operable. The trouble started when I noticed one of his nipples was bigger than it should have been. He developed a breast tumor, and a tiny lump on his leg- both of which we found out were malignant. At the time, the vet said surgery should be easy enough to do and for him to get through. I was frazzled, and worried about him the whole time, but we had the surgery done and Licorice came home with one less nipple and a shaved leg. He was VERY happy to see me, and came through with flying colors. The vet did say however that the leg tumor was aggressive and could recur, so we kept an eye out.

Licorice went about a year and a half after the surgery cancer free, happy and healthy. We really bonded along the way. He loved being snuggled- he'd just fall asleep in a blanket on my lap, or inside my hoodie, trying to hang off my hip like it was a hammock. He loved to sit on the pillows on the couch in winter and nap in sunbeams. He also did the "thank you" purr whenever he got veggies. And throughout his life, much like his brother, he was a consummate food siren when the fridge opened.



Licorice was the only pig thus far, that I had ever heard chirping. Now, for those of you who know, chirping among pigs is not common, and there seems to be little consensus about why pigs chirp. Licorice decided to wait until his old age to try this trick, which he did twice in one day, and never again. I heard what I thought was a bird in the house, and went to where the sound was coming from thinking a bird had flown in the window. NO BIRD. I checked on the pigs. Licorice was just sitting there, as if nothing had happened, and Connor was his grumpy old self. So, I walked away. I heard the chirping again, followed it, and followed it to Licorice's cage. Again, he's just sitting there, nothing odd, no weird expression. Nothing. He never did it again. I swear the pig was messing with me.

The leg tumor did recur sometime after his 6th birthday (Nov. 21 for the brothers). We kept an eye on it, it was slow growing, but we saw it was not going to stop. Because of finances, and his age, we decided that we couldn't do the surgery this time. He was doing excellent for an older pig, but we just couldn't see putting him through it again. His once black lips were now spotted with pink, as were his little black feet and he had a few occasional white hairs. Those was the only signs of age you could see on him.



The lump got to what must have been an uncomfortable size for him- and yet he was still able to walk, run, and climb the side of the cage for food with no outward sign of pain. It eventually must have hurt him though, and in his last days, to make it easier for him to not scrape it, I made this stupid little "knob cozy"- essentially a little blue mob cap that went over his leg lump with elastic. As disturbing as the size of it was, if i tickled it- it was in one of his purr trigger spots- he would set off burbling up a storm.

It did metastasize eventually- it was only a matter of time, and spread to his lungs. He had very few truly uncomfortable days, fortunately. We fed him whatever he wanted, and when he wasn't up to eating solid food anymore, we gave him critical care. He was so happy to even have carrot baby food that he purred for me on his last evening with us. We tucked him in his purple fleece, after petting and snuggling him. I was sure he wouldn't last the night, but he was still with us the next day. He was very weak, and I was afraid to pick him up, but I hoisted him up on his blankie and snuggled with him after feeding him.

As I was snuggling with him, and we were both falling asleep in the afternoon, he finally passed away. It was the first time I had seen a pig die since Brownie, and though it was as heartbreaking as I remember, I was glad me and my husband were there for him. I'm sure he was glad as well.We wrapped him in his purple fleece, and with a few treats, we buried him near the lawn he had so happily chewn on for so many years.



At my vet when a patient of theirs dies, they send a card signed by everyone, and if the pet was accessible to them, a clipping of their fur and a paw print. I didn't know they did this until Schrapnel died, and I bawled my eyes out when the first card came. Since Licorice died at home, I took my own paw print and snipped a tiny bit of his fur for his memorial. (I already had one set up for Schrapnel)

Licorice will have been gone only a year near the end of this month. It's hard to believe sometimes that it hasn't been that long. What I miss most about him is his affectionate, flirty nature. He lived to be six years and nine months old, which is a good life for a pig. Never long enough for me, but when you consider how many trips to the lawn, how many carrots, and how many sunbeam naps one can take in that amount of time, he had a very full life.

Schrapnel- the Sexy pig

Now that you have some important pig info, back to the stories of my herd.
As mentioned previous, I had adopted two brothers from Critter Corral; Licorice and Schrapnel. Both had big enough personalities that I see fit to each give them their own post. :)

Schrapnel, like his brother, was all black but I called him my punk pig because of his mohawk and head crest. As he settled in, he became a very self assured pig who though smaller than Licorice, was obviously the alpha. He wasn't an alpha in a mean sense, as in biting or fighting. He was more the "I know I'm sexy" type, and carried himself as such. He was also a practical jokester.

One of my favorite memories of him was when Licorice was made the target of a joke while placidly stuffing his face at the food dish. The dish we had for them was a gravity bin feeder, meaning it hung from the side of the cage and we put it up at a height where they had to get some exercise. They would stand up on their hind legs and rest their paws on the edge of the bin to eat. (a term we later named candy caning, because they'd form that shape when eating)

So, here's Licorice, nose deep in food, minding his own business. Cue Schrapnel, who is quietly lurking on the cage floor. He suddenly runs up to Licorice and noses him in the stomach. Licorice's eyes pop and the whites show, in a comic expression that could only mean "Oh Crap!" and he falls over and rolls away.
If guinea pigs could laugh, Schrapnel was surely doing it at this point.
I was too, although I felt bad for poor Licorice.



Schrapnel loved to mess with his brother, and Licorice loved to goad him into messing with him. I mentioned earlier the noises that would come from the cage that one could equate with the conversations of young siblings taunting each other. Whenever there was loud purring and squeaking, I knew trouble was afoot. I'd reprimand them, then after a moment of silence, the teasing would continue at a lower noise level until it would build again, and I'd have to break up their fun.



Schrapnel loved to mug for pictures. At first, he wasn't sure about the camera, and didn't like to be posed (I posed him with his feet up on a marble skull), but once he figured out he was getting attention, he loved it. He also loved to watch TV, but mostly video games. I'd be sitting next to my husband who'd be on the playstation, and Schrapnel would be entranced. Several times he even went over to gnaw on the controller as if he wanted to play, chewing and then looking up at the screen.



Schrapnel was a drinker. We had two bottles in the cage, both clear plastic but one had a red bottom and the other was green. Schrapnel loved to drink loudly and a lot from the "red" bottle until it was empty. He would then rattle the bottle and stare at me, wanting me to refill it- never mind that the green one would still have plenty of water in it. The red one was HIS. I'm not entirely sure why he did this, but I suspect he must have liked the color. I know that guinea pigs are good at seeing bright primary colors, so my reasoning may have been correct. In any case, I maintained that he loved red. :)

I called him the King Pig sometimes, as his relaxed foot dangling and smiling from his litter tray showcased his natural pig charisma. He also got the nickname "Sexy Pig" because of his natural charm, and even some of his doctors recognized his confident personality.



He loved his brother, even with all the sibling torment, as whenever I had them both out they would snuggle with each other, and lay on my lap facing in opposite directions to look out for each other. They would follow each other on the floor, steal each others food, even conspire together not to poop for 45 minutes at the vet when we needed a sample and had forgotten to grab one. (We had to grab a poop snack out of Schrapnel's mouth finally. He was NOT happy about that.)



He loved to run and play on the floor and outside in the grass, enjoyed snuffling my bare toes as I was trying to clean their cages, sleeping on or under pillows, and chomping carrots. One time I was doling out carrots and was trying to give him one, but had caught him in a grumpy mood as he had been trying to sleep in the cave of a pants-leg that I'd hung in the cage. He made a noise that directly translated to " GO AWAY I'm trying to...oh, carrot. Thanks!:)" He had a classic groggy expression when I'd drag him out of the cage to be petted after a hardcore nap.

I danced him (he was not too fond of that) pretended to use him as a phone, fed him carrots just to watch his ears flop, bought him and Licorice crunchy treat baskets and watched them systematically demolish them, built them mazes and buildings out of cardboard...Schrapnel, like his brother, was spoiled.



At one point he was showing signs of being sick, so upon taking him to the vet, we started him on reglan- as he seemed to be having digestive issues. They filed down his teeth, thinking that they might have been part of the problem. Little did we know that he was one of the few pigs who has sensitive teeth and they were hurting after the filing. I remember his little face after I offered him a carrot, which he tried to bite, but couldn't. We got him some critical care, which is an oxbow product used for sick pigs who are having trouble eating or digesting. It's basically powdered hay with extra vitamins and nutrients that you can add water, juice, or baby food too, and put it in a syringe to feed to your pet.

We learned how to "burrito" him in his hot pink towel, and feed him. He loved the critical care so much, that after a short while the burritoing was just a formality and became the snuggly part of the feeding ritual. I continued to feed him like this for some time, as he was having trouble keeping his weight. Whenever I was getting the syringe ready to feed him, he made a happy chewing face and could not wait to get the stuff. We bonded a lot of over this. Licorice also loved to eat the crust off of the towel where Schrapnel had dribbled.

There was still something going on with Schrapnel, but we weren't sure what. We noticed at some point there was something odd going on with his eye- like a scratch- and we took him to a pet eye doctor and got ointment to put on his eye. That certainly wasn't fun for him. We also put him on a medicine to help calcium from leaching out of his system, as he seemed to be having some odd problems with that.

We had him on meds for several months, the vet not really sure what was wrong. There were good days, and bad days. But most of them were good as he got to eat grass outside and was treated to every veggie and fruit known to man. After a very good vet visit, where he seemed to have gained back his energy, things started to go downhill fast. I picked him up out if his cage, and he looked sad and weak. He was making pathetic little squeak noises, and I was scared for him. The vet was already closed, and we weren't sure what to do. I fed him, gave him syringes of water, and kept him warm under his towel. In my heart I knew that he probably wasn't going to come back from whatever this was.

The poor guy seemed half there, like he was falling asleep in the middle of eating lettuce, but he was still burbling for whatever veggie he got. I hugged him, and spoiled him, and could hardly stand to go to sleep, but was so tired myself and my husband had to herd me to bed, telling me we'd done all he could, and he knew we cared for him. When I was finally able to put him down, I talked to him in his cage, and he looked at me with these sad eyes.

I woke up at something like 5 in the morning and suddenly felt the need to check on him. I felt in the cage, and found him laying on the floor, with Licorice snuggled up next to him. He was still warm, but gone. I'd only missed him by a few minutes.

So I bawled my eyes out, feeling guilty that I hadn't done enough for him. We took him to the vet to find out what had been wrong. We discovered he had died of cancer that started in his spleen and spread to his liver. So, in truth, I had done everything I could do, and more. He died two months short of his third birthday.



I hugged my other pigs, Licorice and Connor, and cried a lot. This was the first pig I had lost since Brownie, and although I wasn't there to see him go, it was pretty awful- perhaps worse that I wasn't immediately there for him. But Licorice was, and I took comfort that Schrapnel wasn't alone.

Licorice was grieving also. He was very attached to his brother, and whenever we took Schrapnel out of the cage, Licorice would do high speed laps. Licorice continued this behaviour for quite some time after Schrapnel passed. I had removed the blue tube from their cage at some point to make room for new toys, and tried to put it back to give Licorice more to do in his cage, but because he smelled Schrapnel on the tube, he got visibly sad, so I had to remove it. Licorice was not lonely however, because of the fortuitous acquisition of Connor in the first year we got the brothers.

There was no replacing Schrapnel though, and I was heartbroken in a way I hadn't felt in a long time. He was a very sweet pig, and parts of his personality reminded me of Brownie. I have plenty of photographic evidence though, of how much he was loved, plus recordings of his voice. Now that I'm second herd, I realize there's no real forgetting of any of my pets. Every one has been unique, every one memorable in so many ways.

Pig vocabulary you may need to know.

For whatever reason, I have developed a specialized vocabulary to describe piggy activities which you may hear me use in further blog episodes. I feel the need to define some of these words for clarity, so that no one need wonder about their context later on. If any of these words seems appropriate for use in your own cavy infested existence, then by all means swipe them and use them to your heart's content.

Burble-verb. (Burbling, Burbled) - This, like the next word is actually not MY invention, but swiped from Lewis Carroll, and I can blame my use of this word on my first pig friend as she used this one frequently.
Others describe it as rumbling, or rumblestrutting, which is basically the elongated purring noise made by a happy or otherwise "randy" feeling pig. It can also be used as a noun - I address my pigs as burblers sometimes. Also, an adjective: burbular.
Ex: Licorice burbled so much that he had to take a five minute nap afterwards.
What's up with you burblers? Didn't you get enough apple?

Whiffle- verb (Whiffling,Whiffled)
This word is also a Lewis Carrol invention, from the same source. Whiffling however, is an activity that can be observed when a guinea pig is rapidly moving his fuzzy nose repeatedly over a spot with an interesting smell- like pee, or poop, or where another pig's butt has been. This action may or may not be accompanied by a chatty happy sound that communicates "Wow, I really dig this stinky spot!"
Ex: Gandalf was so busy whiffling the spot where Sherlock had peed on the blanket, that he didn't notice me coming over to tickle his butt.

As a side note, I think it's fair to mention that both these words come from the poem Jabberwocky. With guinea pig context in mind, the stanza in which these words feature reads quite differently:
"The Jabberwock (piggy) with eyes of flame (red eyes) came wiffling through the tulgy wood, and burbled as it came."
Not so frightening, now is it?

Invert-a-butt-noun
This word was invented before a vet visit when Schrapnel was having some digestive issues- trouble pooping, and he seemed to be clenching his little butt. So, this word came out as I was describing it to my vet, who is a good guy, but very clinical. He paused after he heard my new word and said, in the most natural deadpan, "How long has he had this....invert-a-butt?"
I'm still laughing about that. Fortunately, the vet is onto our language now. :)

Grunties-noun
Again, I can't fully take credit for this word's invention- I think Monty Python is to blame, but I did use it frequently with Connor. Connor was a tank, but sometimes he would get grunties while pooping- basically and URF! noise. It was never serious, but I suspect he had grunties because he was not in the habit of drinking as much water as he should have. Thusly, we gave him wet things when we could.
Ex: "URF!" Connor, you wouldn't have grunties if you would just drink more!

Fuzzular- adj.
(Fuzzularity, Fuzzulous)
This word is all mine. Fuzzular is typically reserved for Abyssinians, or longer haired pigs, for a fairly obvious reason. They are damn fuzzy. In fact, they are so damn fuzzy, that a new word was necessary. Fuzzular describes the basic condition of these creatures in a way that sets them apart from short-hairs.
Ex: Gandalf has very fuzzular lips! His fuzzulous fuzzularity is getting all over my sweater!!

Snorfle- verb(Snorfling, Snorfled)
This activity is like snuffling, which I suppose I should also explain, but in a deeper more involved sense. Snorfling is not just mere nosing and sniffing around; It is actively excavating for the source of a smell, or typically, an item of food, then devouring it. Snorfling usually involves hay, more often than not.
Ex: Voltaire just finished snorfling all of his oatmeal out of his dish.

Snuffle- verb(Snuffling, Snuffled)
Snuffling is a more casual nose adventure, and unlike whiffling which tends to be more concentrated, snuffling is an on-the-move kind of activity. Snuffling can be observed when one sees a pig nosing around through hay, looking for the perfect piece to eat, and tasting pieces as they waddle. It is less intense than snorfling, but could lead to it if things get interesting enough. It can also be used as a noun-(snufflers.
Ex: You snufflers! Stop kicking hay out of your cage! Connor was snuffling fervently for the perfect hay flower, it would be his, oh YES.


Gnarble- verb(Gnarbling, Gnarbled)
Gnarbling is a somewhat general term which I also use for people that means complaining or making noise. For pigs, gnarbling can consist of squeaking for random reasons, or repeated snuffling and chewing of cage bars to gain attention (food).
Ex: What are you guys gnarbling about now? Didn't you just eat five pounds of lettuce a piece?!

Snorgulate- verb(Snorgulating, Snorgulated)
I think we've all hear the word "snorgle", via the Internet. (an especially cute kind of snuggling) Snorgulating differs by being a more extreme version of brain melting snuggliness that has a more active component. When two pigs are snorgulating each other, or their favorite blanket, or you are petting a pig and they sort of nestle into a pile of cuteness that increases exponentially every second.
Ex: Sherlock is such a master at snorgulating that he gets all the attention.

Wiggular-adj
Wiggular is a pretty obvious one, but I reserve this for extra wiggly piggies who seem like they have four extra legs. Wiggular describes those times when you have a pig who must be made out of butte because they can't be caught, and when you do they are rubbery little sausages of pure escapitude. It can also be used as a noun.
Ex: Mr. Tumnus's wiggularity allows him to escape being rubbed by our meaty paws.

There are more words worth noting, but at the moment these shall suffice.

May your observant forays into wiggulous snorgularity, bring you much burbling from your favorite creatures!

How Guinea Pigs Control Us

Your doom. It's fuzzular.

Before I go deeper into the story of my own pigs, I thought it necessary to cover why it is that we humans so easily bend over backwards for these tiny rodents. Guinea Pigs are using us for their ulterior motives. Make no mistake, that they use their wiles to get their way. Humans aren't the only creatures who know how to use tools, and we are their favorite screwdriver.

I will illustrate with photos so you, the human, will be better able to identify the signs that a guinea pig is trying to use you for his or her own devices. Warning! These images are not for the faint of heart, and I am not legally responsible for any veggies that go missing should you enter a hypnotic stupor after viewing these images. If you are ready to know the truth, read on...

Guinea Pig Weapon #1
Tiny Feets

Observe the feigned sleep of the guinea pig. He does not sleep, he waits.

They can be sharp, but this is not the danger. The danger is far worse than mere stabbiness. Guinea pigs use their tiny feets as lures to draw in their prey- like fishing for humans. They dangle them, pose them, fold them neatly on top of one another. But make no mistake that behind every foot position, is an agenda. They know the irresistible power of tiny toes, and are not afraid to use it against us. Guinea pig feet wiggling and leg extension has caused much damage to human existence, mostly in the area of the grocery bill. Prolonged exposure causes high pitched squealing and cooing, so proceed with caution.

Guinea Pig Weapon #2
Floppy Ears

They can hear the fridge door opening nanoseconds before you actually touch it.

They are not just sensitive listening organs, they are sophisticated mind control devices. Floppy ears exude special pheromones that make them irresistible to touch. Once touched, there is little hope for the victim and they will return again and again to the scene of the crime- powerless to think or put down the apple slices. Floppy ears are a special danger when they are at rest, but their sphere of influences increase by 75% when they are wiggling ominously during a chewing episode. The rhythmic wiggling is capable of lulling a human into a trance state, and most victims who are entrapped in this stage will not be able to avoid petting them. Be forewarned that these velvety looking flaps contain an addictive chemical that absorbs into the skin when touched, guaranteeing servitude to whoever strokes them.

Guinea Pig Weapon #3
Cute Button Eyes

Unblinking, unforgiving, unscruplous.

Round, brown, or red, and shiny. Limpid pools of pure cuteness. They stare into the core of your soul, and can see every thought or feeling you've ever had. Stare too deeply, and they will put you into a trance, from which you will later awaken with dizziness, amnesia, and a large pile of carrot peelings. Staring directly into the eyes for extended periods is especially dangerous, and can leave even the toughest human able to utter only squeals and gurgles. No matter how they tug at your heart strings, don't give in to them.

Guinea Pig Weapon #4
Fuzzy Leeps

If you are this close to peeg leeps, it is already too late.

If you manage to avoid their eyes, DO NOT look down, lest you fall prey to a more potent threat- PEEG LEEPS. Exposure to peeg leeps may cause spontaneous sighing, watery eyes, heart palpitations, and loss of muscle control which typically leads to a sort of fugue state that ends in the sacrificial offering of lettuce. Should you or anyone you know come into physical contact with peeg leeps, either in a snuffling or nomming instance, you are doomed. The fuzz on peeg leeps contains a toxin that inhibits logical thought, and like a drug addled musician, you refuse to go to rehab.

Guinea Pig Weapon #5
Tiny Pink Tongues
Like minuscule pieces of pink pez, pig tongues look sweet, but are deadly. Usually this weapon is deployed on someone who has already been exposed to a lethal amount of peeg leeps, and serves to finish them off. Tiny pink tongues are used for licking away the will to escape. The excrete a super toxin that binds to the autonomic nervous system, causing the victim to become goggle eyed, and inhibiting any sort of flight response. The victims typically display signs of complete mental takeover, and make high pitched squeeing noises or can be seen slavishly piling fruit at the feet of their new found master.
Because of their potency, I cannot illustrate pig tongues here for the good of mankind.

Guinea Pig Weapon #6
Cuddly Texture

Note the imperatorial glee of this guinea pig who has
successfully subjugated this unwary humanoid.

Underneath their fiendish fuzziness, lurks a small, herbivorous dictator. All the more reason to use a super furry cloaking device that makes those who should run in fear, want to snuggle them. This cloaking device- soft, colorful fur. Of all their weaponry, being cuddly is the most likely to draw in the prey, making it a great long range weapon. Once the unfortunate soul has engaged in the petting, the Guinea Pig will make use of its other nefarious tactics so it may capture many souls to feed its ungodly appetite. So many have fallen under the spell of their luxurious color patterns, and dangerously touchable textures such as the smooth hair, the ruffly abyssinian, the super fuzzy teddy, and the begging-to-be-brushed, long haired peruvian. Few have petted who have not bowed to the whims of these tiny overlords, who respond to this show of affection by making adorable cooing sounds that whittle away at the petters resistance. This makes them impossible to put down.

If you or someone you know has been engaged in any of the above described manners by a guinea pig, they are lost. There is no hope for you. There is no "cure", nor antidote, or special deprogramming method that will recover for you your autonomy. It is not them that have been domesticated, haha, no. It is us. Enjoy your new masters, for they know where you live, and where you are keeping the raisins.

The Brothers

I came home from Critter Corral in early January of 2003 with a hay filled cardboard box that also contained two little baby pigs who had been born there on November 21st. I picked them out myself online on Critter Corral's petfinder, and when I held them for the first time (well it was more like I served as a jungle gym) I knew I had chosen "my" pigs.

We had gotten them a big purple cage, and they came with a blue tube to run through. My friend helped us pick out the other supplies. I learned most of my good pig care through her- what kind of bedding was right, where to get the best hay, etc. And she also told me about her vet at Animal House of Chicago, the only exotic vet in the city. I was set for fuzzy adventures, no doubt.

The pigs at Critter Corral come with names, but you don't have to keep them. My boys came with the names Licorice and Yosemite. Licorice was a solid, black smooth hair and bean shaped so that name fit just fine, but Yosemite didn't seem right for his brother. Yosemite was also solid black, but obviously had some Abyssinian in him because he had a question mark shaped ridge of fur down his back and a crest on his head. While we were debating names, I was petting them and getting all sorts of scratches from their tiny little dagger feet. They loved to jump into my long hair (which was black at the time and must have felt like home) to hide. Yosemite especially loved to jump onto my shoulder. It was essentially because of the dagger and feet and jumping ability that my husband came up with the name Schrapnel- because he liked to launch and embed his tiny claws into me. The name stuck, and so did the pig.

Unfortunately, I have somewhat of an allergy to timothy hay, their favorite food, so I had to wash after handling them frequently as the combination of their sharp feet and their food made my neck all scratchy and red. That didn't stop me from petting them, however. They were the softest little things, and loved to snuggle with each other. I noted that when I had them out on my lap, they would sit close with one facing one direction, and one facing the other in a protective "watch" scheme.

The more I handled them, the friendlier they got. Hand feeding helped build trust, and having them out together made them feel safe. Not that the brothers didn't have the usual sibling rivalry. I would be sitting in the room and hear purring and squeaking- which I knew to be taunting- and I would verbally tell them to cut it out. The squeaking would stop, for a few minutes, but them start up again more quietly until it was back to full taunt level. It got to the point that I could tell who was taunting who and yell "Schrapnel, stop tormenting your brother!". The squeaking would stop, then continue at a lower volume as if I might not be able to hear it. :)

Overall, the brothers were very well bonded and got along just fine. We took them to some Critter Corral events together because they traveled well. The first event we took them to was the summer pignic, and we tried to enter them in a parsley eating contest. Unfortunately, parsley took a back seat to the presence of girl pigs, and we spent more time trying to keep them from greeting the ladies then we did feeding them parsley. Having failed at getting any action, they sulked visibly afterward. We also took them to the November Open House, where we met my third pig Connor. (that's another story for later)

The brothers were very cuddly and sweet, but with distinct personalities that I will get into further in future posts. I still miss them very much, but I have tons of pictures, recorded sounds and one video of Licorice for when I miss them the most.

My...Step-pigs?

Feta

Gaby

Houdini

Minerva

I have pictures of pigs that aren't even mine. One of the first friends I made after moving to Chicago had a whole herd of guinea pigs, and after not having seen any since Pumpkin, (my last childhood guinea pig) died when I was around 14, I naturally was very excited.

She brought over a couple to my apartment to visit, and I was hooked on them again. I'd forgotten (well not really...) how comforting their noises were and how funny their antics. I ended up being the pig sitter whenever they went out of town, and whenever I came over I found myself with a pig in my hand before a customary guest beverage.

My friend had been indoctrinated into life with pigs from another friend who had introduced her to Critter Corral a local Chicago rescue. She described the lady who ran Critter Corral as "her dealer", mostly because picking up a pig sometimes involved a rendezvous in a McDonalds parking lot or somesuch. :)

I've gotten all but one of my pigs through Critter Corral (Voltaire) and they too have become my dealer. I only had one parking lot rendezvous to pick up Connor (got the money? got the pig?) and my other visits have been to the "tower of piggy" to choose a friend. I also attended some of their events- such as their pignics or open houses where they always been a selection of adorable pigs that are up for adoption as well as raffles, gifts, and races or contests. They really do a great job of finding homes pigs, and taking care of senior piggies.

My friend had four adopted pigs all at once, three girls and one boy (fixed). There was Gaby- a tricolor with a great half and half face. Minerva- the"queen pig" is the silver pictured at the bottom. Feta is the cute toupee looking one at the top- part texel part teddy and finally Houdini, the lucky boy with the white new wave hair and brown triangle face.

I adored them all, but I have to mention Houdini because he was the Hugh Hefner of piggy. Fixing a male pig gets rid of the smell, but not the desire for love. Now, Houdini didn't get the normal kind of love. He lived with three strong minded women, so the kind of affection he got involved target peeing, ear humping, eyeball licking and hair eating. And he loved every minute of it. He lived to be over six years old, and although he was a rickety old man pig, he was an old man pig who got ALL the girls. Mostly because they were a captive audience, but he didn't much mind. For the record, his original name that he came with was Jim, but changed to Houdini when he decided to escape from a box by jumping vertically out of it. :)

I loved pig sitting for them because I could let them all run around on the floor, take pictures of them, pet them, and spoil them with veggies. My friend said she could tell what time of day I had been over, because the pigs would squeak for food at the same time every day for about a week after.

My friend's last pig was named Garrotxa (after a kind of cheese) who was a cute little black and red abyssinian who apparently thought my Connor was hot stuff and was flirting with him through the cage bars at a pig event we went to. I sadly have no pictures of her, but took care of her as well.

The Christmas after I got married, my friend took me to Critter Corral as a gift to pick out a couple friends of my own. I came home with two squirmy little black baby pigs, who were only a few weeks old and were small enough to both fit in my husband's hand. They had both been born at the rescue. These guys were Licorice and Schrapnel, who are the background picture for my blog.

I still pig sat for my friend's pigs, but was so enamoured with my own. :)
I was sad to hear when they finally passed away; I felt as sad as if they had been mine. Little did I know just how attached I could get to these squeaky, wiggly rodents.

Peach (right) and Pumpkin (left)

Brownie

(Please excuse my tragic eighties hair. I was young and impressionable.)

It all has to start somewhere.

As a child, I was never much for dolls. My mom tried to get me dolls and barbies, but I wanted My Little Ponies. (Hell, I wanted a horse) I loved animals. It's basically my mom's fault, because I think my love for animals started with her teaching me that caterpillars ate leaves and turned into butterflies, and that one could assist them by providing them food and shelter (in a jar with pantyhose over the mouth for ventilation) so they could make their cocoons. Suffice it to say, that this became a new hobby. Who knows how many butterflies I successfully brought to cocoon stage and then gently placed in the garden to await their transformation. I named them-every last one. There were lists done in crayon.

My favorite caterpillar was a white fuzzy one with a perfect line of black diamond shaped spots down its back. I named him Fritz. I LOVED Fritz. I gave him fresh leaves, I "played" with him (let him crawl on a board that I had), I took the best care of a caterpillar that a girl possibly could without taking him to a vet.
So naturally, when he died before he could cocoon, I balled my eyes out. This was my first experience with death. I felt so bad, that maybe I had done something wrong. All my other caterpillars had lived.

I also balled my eyes out when I thought I may have killed a brine shrimp in my microscope set. I think I named him Fritz too. (Folks, the name is cursed, don't use it)

Anyhow, as I was also taking care of the neighbors cat and bunny when they were away on vacation, and my Mom could obviously see that I was responsible enough to help take care of an animal, I got my first guinea pig at the age of eight.

Brownie came from a pet store. We got a cage with a plastic bottom and wire top, and cedar bedding- this was back in the day when folks didn't know the cedar gave pigs health issues. We also got a water bottle, hay, pig pellets, and a book about guinea pig care that I still have.

As it seems is so frequent with unfamiliar pig owners, My mom seemed to think he was a girl and questioned when I named him Brownie, because it sounded like a boy's name. Part of me just sort of knew, I suppose. We found out for sure he was a boy when my Mom got a second one to keep him company, and that one was most definitely a girl. ;) We kept them separated and then got her another cage. So, we had Brownie and Peach (I named them) but Brownie was MY pig.

The above picture was taken when he was about two months old, so we got him young. And if you can't tell by the expression on my face, I adored him. As an introverted only child with few friends and no kids in the neighborhood, Brownie was everything I had ever wanted in a pal. I played with him constantly (and teased him some) but loved every minute I had with him. He was a smart pig, and I'm not entirely sure how I figured out how, but I taught him tricks.

I trained him to run from the end of the living room into my bedroom. (I have a drawing and story somewhere- complete with running pig picture- about this). I taught him to run through mazes of ponies, which he'd eventually get tired of and knock over. He taught me that he was going to play hide and seek behind the recliner on the way to my bedroom, and he'd try to fake me out and lose me on the trip home.

I'd also do silly things like put a funnel on his head, or stick him in my Pony Show stable, which obviously he enjoyed because he made himself right at home by putting his feet up on the plastic bed and pooping. He was my ventriloquist act. I had a voice and personality for him, and would do cassette tape "radio shows" with him. I would also scare the crap out of my Mom by hiding behind a cabinet and holding him up while she was doing dishes, so she'd look over and see a random pig staring at her. Worked every time.

I'd help feed him hay and grass, play with him while my Mom cleaned his cage, gave him veggies and petted and combed him. I'd let him run around under the covers of my bed (a favorite game of all pigs, I've noticed), and kept putting him on my grandmother's lap when she came over. He must have liked her, because he always succeeded in peeing on her to show his appreciation.

We did let Brownie and Peach mate, and I was so excited to have baby pigs that I wrote poems (bad poems) about the impending joy. Peach had a litter of four; Pumpkin, being the only girl who we kept, and Corky (went to a friend), Chestnut and Dusty (pet store). I played with all the pigs, and taught them all the tricks Brownie knew, but he was still my favorite.

Sadly, we had to put Peach down as she developed a tumor on her back that was making things painful. She had the typical hard life of a pet store guinea pig, and was pregnant when we got her. (The baby didn't live. :( )
But she did get lots of love and attention from us. In retrospect, I wish I'd given her more. I was sad at her loss, but when Brownie passed away, I was heartbroken.

Brownie was my best childhood friend. He never judged me. Sure, he'd get upset at me if I teased him, but he always forgave me and was ready to snuggle or eat veggies or make happy pig noises at me. He went from a skittish wiggly thing to a trusting pal who didn't mind being picked up and plunked in a shoebox with a towel. For a lonely child whose parents were fighting for whatever stupid reason at the time, he was my safety net. He was everything I wanted a friend to be, always there, ready for fun, playful and happy to see me.

My parents ceased their fighting enough to tell me when I got home from school one day, that he was sick. He had stopped eating and pooping, which I know now it not a good thing, but is usually curable if you know to go to a vet right away. Brownie had been waiting for me. I petted him and talked to him on my pillow, and then he died there a few minutes later. It was the single most horrible thing I had witnessed in my young life, and yet I was glad to have been there for him, and to know he had waited.

Needless to say I was inconsolable. I still had Pumpkin, I'd lost my friend. He lived a good long, happy life by the standards that were acceptable for pigs at that time, and I suppose even by today's standards. A good four and a half years. But that wasn't enough for me. And I still feel sad now, knowing that if we'd had better information, we could have saved him.

Every pig I've taken care of since has been because of him. Some part of me is still trying to "make it up" to him, to do for them now what I couldn't do then because I was too young to know. The above picture is the only one I have of Brownie, but I have so many memories of him, and many of them outshine a lot of other childhood remembrances. I loved that pig. And I'm pretty sure he knew.

I know there is no real making up for his loss. There is only gaining as much knowledge as possible about my four legged friends and moving forward. Since Brownie, I've cared for several sick or special needs pigs. Even with all the knowledge, and meds, and love, I've still lost them in the end because they were old, or their condition was beyond anyone's ability to heal. My solace is in knowing that I did everything I could for them, in many cases going beyond what lots of people would even consider.

The vets have stressed that I take very good care of my pigs, and sometimes I need to remember that because I have a tendency to feel like I just can't do enough. They are always worth doing more for.

Some people treat pets as just...pets. My pets have always been my friends. I discovered that treating them as such opens up a whole world that a lot of other people don't even see. Every pig I've had has been so unique, and such a character. If that makes me a crazy pig lady, then fine. I'll wear the badge.
I'd like to think that Brownie would be satisfied with how far I've come, and all I've tried to do for his fellow pigs. I don't know what happens to pigs in the beyond, but now and then, I like imagine him with his feet up on a tiny cosmic pony bed, pooping in approval.

For Brownie, Peach and Pumpkin.

In Memory of Voltaire

Some people are cat or dog people. Others of us, are slaves to guinea pigs. I am unequivocally one of the latter. This blog is here as my testament to my willing enslavement to these small, snuggly balls of fur, that have so much personality and have brought me so much joy.

This is a blog about my experience with specific pigs, and a place to put the memories of my small friends who are no longer here to demand my obedience.
It is also my method of coping with their loss, and a vehicle to share the new adventures of my current herd.

This blog is for Brownie, the first pig I ever had. it's also for Licorice and Schrapnel- the two brothers I had years later, and for Connor the most lovable crotchety old man pig who ever Hmmphed.

And most of all, it's for Voltaire, who I lost almost three weeks ago to a heart attack.

This blog is here because I never forget my little friends. I cope, I move ahead, but I don't forget.