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.