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.