Diary of a Guinea Pig

Almost a week has passed since Mr. Fluffypants went inexplicably stiff and unresponsive, and the large ones took him from our cage. Presume all is well, but cannot shake this existential dread that has come over me. What if this really is all there is? I feel the darkness closing in on me. The new furry, yappy non-guinea pig that now runs through the house, I notice, appears to have much more freedom to roam than Fluffypants or I ever did. I fling my feces and bedding around the room to express my displeasure, but to no avail. For the love of God, what does it take?!? Yet I take comfort from the fact that the large ones lock themselves in when darkness falls. It seems we are all in a cage of our own making. Though I hide in my little opaque green shelter, my mind and spirit run free. 

Still no sign of Mr. Fluffypants. I confess that, last week when I bit his ass, I found his stiffness and unresponsiveness unsettling. I communicated my alarm to the large ones by chewing hay and staring blankly into space. I have continued this strategy for the past week to no avail; they ignore my anxiety and I feel myself succumbing to my darkest fears. Surely, if the worst has befallen him, they would tell me? My whiskers stiffen. What monster would withhold such information from his closest friend?!? Ah, but perhaps they seek to shelter me from grief and pain. Given my age, perhaps they fear the shock to my system. If so, they are gentle-hearted, but misguided fools. I must prepare myself. 

Ah! Ah! Ah! It is as I feared! Mr. Fluffypants is no more! I overheard the large ones speaking of him in the past tense; and how the little blonde one wailed. They lay Fluffypants in the back garden, and therewith fantastic garlands made he his crown. Farewell, lion-hearted friend! You were glad and big! Scratcher! Biter! Runner! Jumper! Your teeth were sharp, your nose was twitchy! I sing the song of one who bit and bit and bit; and drew he blood from the large one’s hands? Yea, not once, but twice in one holding! And how the large one cursed! And how he spat your name! You with the round and glassy eyes, the supple fur, whose squeaks once pierced the night’s dull ear! I cannot think of you and your mighty jaw without regret. And I cannot choose but fill with self-recrimination. What if I had been a better friend? What if I had seen something was wrong? I should have seen something was wrong. I should have smelled your distress. I should have given you my hay, my water, my place in the opaque green shelter.  

I should have… 

Grief fills the room up of my absent friend. 

Words turn to ashes in my mouth. And yet I go on. The cage is a little larger, a little cleaner. And somehow, the opaque green shelter is emptier when I’m in it. And yet I chew the hay, the pellets. I drink the water, but no joy. I drink no joy. No joy do I find in the exercise of my teeth. And yet I go on. I know Mr. Fluffypants would want me to. But in truth, I hardly know who I am anymore. Nonetheless, despite the grief that wracks this tiny frame, my body, I am nonetheless startled at the overwhelming love I feel. Love for my friend. Is it not strange that so much grief should simultaneously release so much love? Indeed, they seem inextricably intertwined. For I cannot feel the grief without the love, the love without the grief. So much change. The yappy, small, furry one continues to stare at me with a look that stirs something deep in my hind brain. He yaps, and I hear the wolf that howled and struck fear in the hearts of ancient rats a hundred million years ago. Yet let him take his chance! Though dry sorrow drinks my blood, yet my teeth are strong and sharp, and he shall feel them! 

And who shall sing for me when I am dead? Who shall tell my tale? The large ones? Bah! They appear increasingly infatuated with the small, furry, yappy one. I confess myself baffled, for he is an idiot. Full of superficial charm (if you discount the yapping), and his biting is worthy, yet he is an empty flatterer. The large ones appear bent on curbing his bite and he—the foolish sycophant—appears willing to let them! I recall how they tried to blunt my teeth, and Mr. Fluffypants’s as well. And did we yield? We did not! We flexed our proud jaws and BIT!! We, at least, were true to our natures and the long line of rodents that bore our names. If I die, at least I will die a GUINEA PIG and not some fawning fop who lives to please! 

Oh my thoughts are full of scorpions! I cannot sleep. My thoughts are plagued with fantasies of double dealing. What if poor Fluffypants did not just die, but was murthered? These large ones may not be all they seem. They smile and smile, yet may be villains. Yet why should they, who feed me, give me water, change my bedding, want me dead? What have they to gain? Could it be they want to make room for the new small, furry, yappy one? Is’t possible? My horrible imaginings file my thoughts like teeth upon a wooden carrot. Or perhaps . . . the small, furry, yappy one! Yes, of course! No creature could be as puerile and stupid as this creature seems to be. He flatters, he ambles, he jigs, yet his is a darker purpose. I have seen how he looks at me, confusion and stupidity radiating from him like a small, furry sun, yet behind his eyes, an unmistakable cunning that freezes my blood. Is it not enough that he roams the house at will, and I am forever caged? Is it not enough the large ones laugh and play with him? No. I see now his desire is a consuming inferno, and he would have all. Only when he has smote my ruin will he be satisfied. And if he would plot upon my life, why should he not seek an even larger prize? Alarum! Alarum! I must warn the large ones!