Yesterday morning, I woke up with a disturbing thought. I never buried my guinea pig after she died a few weeks ago. I couldn't even remember what I did with her little albino corpse.
I checked all of the standard places that one might keep a dead guinea pig. I found a harness of sorts under my bed, but there was no guinea pig. I did not find a guinea pig between the cushions of my couch but, I did find $0.76.
I took a different approach in my search. Detectives on TV always find bodies folded up and wrapped in rugs in the trunks of cars. I Although I know that only victims of heinous crimes end up in trunks, I still checked my car. I did not find Wiggy.
I was wasting my time. I needed to think like me to find my dead pet. I went back inside collected all my handbags. I poured their contents on the floor. I decided to sort the contents into categories; animal, mineral, cosmetic, flammable, and sexual. I sifted through the pile. I found lip gloss (cosmetic), packets of Splenda (flammable), old chewing gum (mineral), and dental floss (cosmetic/sexual). There was nothing in the animal pile.
The kitchen was the next logical place to look. I peered into the garbage disposal. When I was a kid, Mom told me that rats crawl up garbage disposals. As a precaution, I ran the disposal for a few seconds. No rats. No guinea pig. In the freezer, the ice maker was full and, I found my spare mailbox key. I couldn't resist the urge to see if it would stick to my tongue. It did. I opened the fridge and observed that the light still worked and that I was running low on pickles. I opened a vegetable drawer and in horror, I found Wiggy's body, wrapped in plastic. She was cold and stiff and much browner than I had remembered.
I retched over the sink and unceremoniously put Wiggy in the freezer. I called the cat nanny and told him what I had found. We decided that we would bury her in the park immediately. I changed into a short red dress because I have always wanted to wear a slutty red dress to a funeral. I wore black shoes out of respect. When the cat nanny arrived, I made him get the body out of the freezer. He pulled out the plastic bag and inspected Wiggy's decaying frame. "Why do you have a potato in the freezer?" he asked.
We searched for hours. We did not find Wiggy.
I can only conclude that Wiggy was the albino guinea pig Messiah. I live on the sacred site of a rodent resurrection. She has risen.