Pack o’ Pits
A Story of Pet Revenge or Don’t Underestimate a Guinea Pig
It was a Sunday evening a week before Christmas 2015 when Giselle’s photo appeared on my vibrating cell. She’s our pet and house-sitter, a college student who lives with her parents and younger brother, an animal rescuer, and the source of our cat Tango. I accepted the call.
I hate to bother you. I know you have enough on your plate, but I really need some help. I’ve reached out to every other person I can think of with no luck.
I did have a lot on my plate — a business that occupied 50–60 hours a week, two grandchildren who, with their mother/my daughter, resided with me and I was helping to raise, a husband with health issues, and two dogs and a cat.
With hesitation, I asked what she needed.
Giselle spilled out a guinea pig rescue story — a guinea pig that she rescued and now needed rescuing again.
Giselle, her mother, and her brother are animal lovers; her dad is not. He is also a strict alpha male, not known for his compassion. Giselle and her mom each have a pet dog; her brother had no pet and desperately needed and wanted one. A reclusive boy who avoided his father as much as possible, he spent most of his home life in his room. Dad refused to allow another animal in the house.
Giselle saw a young, male guinea pig for adoption at the Humane Society and took it home to her brother figuring such a small animal could be easily concealed from their father.
For two months, the guinea pig was hidden in her brother’s room, a space Dad never entered so there was no risk of discovery. Except, the guinea pig was vocal, especially at night, and that was okay because Dad slept heavily — until the night he had an upset stomach. While searching for antacids in the kitchen, he heard an odd squeaky sound and followed it to his son’s room.
Dad bellowed for Giselle and her mother to wake up. They all gathered in her frightened brother’s room as Dad demanded answers. Giselle told her story and he replied:
This is Friday night. You have until I return from work on Monday evening to get rid of this oversized rat or I am bashing him in the head. And, you know I will!
They did know that.
Saturday morning, Giselle began calling everyone she knew who had pet rodents but nobody could take him. Then, she called everyone else she knew with any kind of pets but nobody could take him. Reluctantly, she called the Humane Society but they had a full house. I was her last hope.
Okay, I’ll take him but I know nothing, absolutely nothing, about guinea pigs, and I really don’t want one. This is temporary! Promise me you’ll keep searching for another home for him.
Giselle promised.
Giselle and her mother were at our door an hour later carrying a small cage filled with some sort of wood-based shavings and a water bottle hanging on the side. Somewhere hidden in the bedding was a guinea pig. The cage seemed too small but Giselle assured me it was a normal size for one piggy. She handed me a half-empty bag of bedding, another of some sort of food called pellets, and a bag of sweet timothy hay.
You only have to change the bedding and clean out the cage once a week. I just did it this afternoon.
I saw piles of small, oblong poops already lining the bottom of the cage and couldn’t imagine waiting a day, much less a week, to remove them!
Hay is his most important food. Always keep a supply of hay in the cage and give him 2 spoons of pellets each day. You can give him some fresh fruits and veggies too if you want.
She opened the cage and dug into the bedding until she pulled out a brown and white furball. He wiggled mightily, trying to escape her grasp.
Here, take him. He doesn’t bite.
Ben looked at me doubtfully as Giselle transferred the small piggy to my hands. Nervous of his frantic movements, I held him close to my chest. His tiny heart was beating rapidly and his brown eyes were filled with fear. I was sure he would die of fright at that moment.
He didn’t.
The front door opened and my daughter, granddaughter, and grandson entered the room. The children rushed over to the table to see what was happening. I expected one of them to ask what I was holding but instead, my grandson exclaimed:
A guinea pig! You got me a guinea pig for Christmas! You remembered how much I liked them!
I struggled to remember when I knew he liked guinea pigs. Then, I recalled that I took the children to the open house at the School of Veterinary Medicine in May and, of all the many animals we saw, my grandson was most enamored with the guinea pigs.
Shit, looks like we are keeping the guinea pig, I thought to myself.
And, we did.
My grandson changed the guinea pig’s name from Thanos to Jolly. My daughter expressed her extreme dislike of the rat as she called him and made it clear she would never touch or feed him, even if Ben and I went out of town and needed her help. And, she added:
This is not my son’s pet! You got him. He’s yours.
I Googled guinea pigs and did a lot of reading. I also joined two Facebook guinea pig groups. Quickly, I learned that his cage was too small, as I originally thought, and that there are better options for bedding.
I ordered a much larger cage from Amazon and created a makeshift table of cinder blocks and a piece of plywood on which to set it. The bedding of shavings was replaced with folded cotton towels that were changed daily when Ben and I cleaned the cage. We also added a variety of sliced vegetables and fruits to Jolly’s diet.
Each evening we took him out to run on our couch as we cleaned his cage but usually he just sat, scared and unmoving.
My research showed that guinea pigs live happier and longer lives with a companion — either one of the same gender or a neutered pig of the opposite gender.
I downloaded the Pet Harbor app and searched for adoptable guinea pigs in our area. By the end of January, we added Adam to our family. He was also brown and white but with more white than Jolly. His owner was a graduating college student, moving to Australia. She had inherited Adam from a previous roommate and seemed more than happy to get rid of him.
Adam’s name was changed to Mauricio. He was almost two years old while Jolly was about four months. Mauricio established his dominance quickly, making sure the younger Jolly knew who was boss.
The new cage was roomy enough for both. They existed together but showed no signs of wanting to be friends.
Mauricio was easier to win over than Jolly. Soon, he was very comfortable being held and ran around our sectional couch, exploring with enthusiasm. Jolly still scampered this way and that in the cage when we reached for him and sat frozen and frightened on the sofa cushions.
By April, Jolly’s testosterone was kicking in and he no longer meekly accepted Mauricio’s bullying. Fights ensued.
Sometimes warring males will settle their differences and become friends or, at least, develop tolerance of one another. But, weeks passed and the battles between Jolly and Mauricio continued.
After seeing Ben separate fighting Mauricio and Jolly by hand, I set gloves and a block of wood near the cage and warned him to never use his hands to separate the little guys. Guinea pig bites are dirty and can easily become infected. Neither one ever tried to bite us when being handled but in the heat of battle, an unintentional bite was possible.
Ben didn’t listen.
I arrived home from work one day to find Ben with a bandaged thumb. Earlier, he tried to separate the fighting piggies by hand. Mauricio didn’t appreciate his interference and bit Ben’s thumb, his tooth puncturing the knuckle.
I removed the bandage and examined the wound. Well, there really wasn’t much to see — just the tiniest puncture, barely noticeable, that Ben had cleaned well with soap and water and peroxide and slathered with antibiotic ointment. No redness, no swelling. All good — until . . .
One o’clock in the morning, Ben woke me.
I’m in pain! Feels like my hand is on fire.
Yep, his hand was puffy and red and the thumb had nearly doubled in size. Off to the emergency room, we went.
The male nurse at the ER desk barely looked up when Ben approached.
Good evening, sir, what brings you here tonight?
Ben looked sheepish as he held out his swollen hand.
I was attacked by a pack of pit bulls.
The nurse’s face registered extreme concern until he saw Ben’s hand. He stifled a giggle. Two female nurses and a male doctor working at a counter behind the check-in desk swung around to see the pit bull injuries and instead saw a swollen hand with no visible dog bites. Confused, the three stepped forward.
Hmm, a pack of pit bulls, sir? Were they very tiny pit bulls?
The nurse reached for Ben’s hand and looked at his thumb, turning it one way and then another until he located the small puncture on the knuckle.
Kind of a small wound for pit bulls or even one pit bull, don’t you think?
Ben exclaimed with pretend bravado:
I’m a man! You can’t expect me to admit that a guinea pig sent me to the hospital!
All the staff laughed.
It was a slow night in the ER and Ben was seen immediately. The doctor, still giggling over the pack of pit bulls remark, examined the bite and ordered a nurse to clean the puncture area. An x-ray was taken to confirm a piece of tooth wasn’t embedded in his knuckle. Antibiotic and tetanus shots were administered and his hand was wrapped in some sort of cooling-gel bandage to bring down the swelling.
As we were walking out the automatic doors, the male nurse called out:
Hey, man, watch out for that pack of pits — they may come back looking for you!
The sound of laughter followed us out the door.
The next day animal control called and grilled me on the facts of Ben’s injury. The questions were suited for a dog, not a guinea pig, but they still needed to be answered.
Has the biter been vaccinated for rabies?
No, he’s a guinea pig.
Does he go aside alone?
No, he’s a guinea pig. If he went outside alone, he’d be lunch for an owl.
Has he had contact with any wild animals?
No, he’s a guinea pig. He lives in a cage in our living room. There are no wild animals in our living room.
And, so the questions went.
Animal control decided my cute guinea pig was not a threat to the general public and would not be apprehended for confinement or euthanasia. However . . .
Mauricio has a rap sheet.
Ben’s thumb healed.
I ordered two larger cages, one for each guinea pig. The cages sit end-to-end, allowing Jolly and Mauricio to visit but not interact physically. They crouch at the ends of their cages, facing one another, and chatter in piggy talk. That’s enough to keep them from being lonely.
We still take them out each night, but one at a time, never together.
Jolly finally overcame his fear and loves to be handled.
Both are friends with our cats.
