Pork, It's What's For Dinner
Go ahead and call PETA now.
When I think about my relationship with Wiggy, the albino guinea pig who lives with me, I am always reminded of that children's song about the old woman who swallowed a fly. She swallowed a spider to catch the fly and then continued to swallow a whole bunch of other critters to get the damn fly.
It's no secret that I'm not overly fond of Wiggy. I rescued her five years ago and I have been waiting for her to die ever since. The first thing I do every morning is check my email. Then, I check to see if Wiggy is still breathing. Guinea pigs can live to be eight years old. By my calculations, Wiggy is living on borrowed time. A few months ago, when I noticed that Wiggy was still in perfect health, I got a cat.
This plan seemed flawless at the time, but it hasn't worked out the way that I had expected. Hissy seems to have no feline instincts. He lounges around the house and attacks my ankles. Once an hour, he gets up to smack Wiggy. Wiggy seems to like the attention.
The problem is that Wiggy is huge by guinea pig standards. There is no way that Hissy could eat Wiggy all at once. I knew that I should have adopted a boa constrictor or a cougar, but Hissy's spots looked so good with my shoes and my furnishings that I was instantly smitten.
About three years ago, I stopped bathing Wiggy. I pretended that I didn't notice that there was crap stuck in her fur. I was able to ignore the four pound clump of wood shavings that clung to the crap stuck in her fur. But, I couldn't overlook the problem any longer when her food bowl (with a carrot in it) became adhered to her rear. Wiggy loves carrots. She chased the carrot in the bowl stuck to her a$ around in circles. It was amusing at first. Eventually, the noise of her overgrown talons scraping the bottom of her cage and the clunking of the bowl against the sides of the cage irritated me.
Last night, I decided that it was time for Wiggy to have a bath.
I ran a few inches of warm water in the bathroom sink and slowly eased her into her bath. She squealed and shrieked. I lifted her up out of the water and examined her butt. The bowl had come free, but several years of crap were still firmly glued to her fur.
I massaged the soap onto her butt. Wiggy cooed. I massaged and Wiggy cooed. And then I got it. She was enjoying it too much. I retched and rinsed the soap from her fur. I hastily dried her fur and returned her to the cage.
As I type this, she is standing up on her hind legs, staring at me between the bars of her cage. Her red eyes are saying, "Mist, you're not gonna leave a pig hanging, are you?"
I am disgusted with myself. I feel used.