Raising the Palm Pig

I weighed things up, down and sideways for a year before Jay joined our family. Our intention was to allow Justine a single litter of guinea pig pups (as opposed to hyena pups) in the interests of DK experiencing for herself 'the circle of life' in all its beauty and horror. 'Hakuna matata' and all that but with blood and messy, complicated love instead of singing meerkats and warthogs. You get the idea. You have to be invested to really get a sense of it all. You have to have something to lose because that's real life. Every time we reach for something more, we risk losing what we have.

I allowed for all the worst possible outcomes. I also allowed for the fact that Justine might have seven pups that, in all likelihood, we would have and hold till death do us part. It never sat quite right to be making the decision for her, but either way, that's what I was doing. To be or not to be; immortality or death.

I anthropomorphised and I over-thought. I made justifications and weighed lives in the palm of my hand. And then I brought baby Jay home for my daughter's 6^th birthday. Protracted and tense pigtroductions ensued. The whole thing felt morally ambiguous. I felt a little like a pimp or at least that I was betraying the sisterhood. Nevertheless, when we felt as sure as we could be that Justine viewed her diminutive new companion as an annoyance rather than a threat and was thus unlikely to pose any real danger to him, they set up hutch together in the laundry.

Jay

He chased and pledged undying love in exchange for favours. She scuttled away, and chittered at him in outrage. In time, they became quite companionable together in their to-ing and fro-ing. This went on for the better part of a year with no sign of any 'progression' in their relationship.

Then one morning, I awoke to find Jay lying stiff under his water bottle. Perhaps he died because we had been unable to get his usual food and the nearest substitute disagreed with his delicate piggy little constitution or maybe he died of a broken heart as his love remained ever unrequited. Either way, we buried him in the backyard and I noted to myself that 'the circle of life' has a way of kicking you in the teeth like that.

Thus, my indecision began anew. Should we find a new male companion for Justine? All of the same pros and cons presented themselves once more for consideration. In the meantime, Karen and Justine moved back in together, enjoying once more their comfortable existence as young, single hutch-mates about town.

Then, of course, Theo arrived on our doorstep - quite literally. He was sublimely beautiful, but he came from the wrong side of town, which in this case was the home of a neighbourhood family (parents included), who were inbreeding guinea pigs at an alarming rate in squalid, dark, smelly and over crowded hutches simply because, I think, they really loved guinea pigs and didn't know any better. I didn't quite know how to handle that the day we toured their hutches. You expect irresponsible pet owners to be people who don't care enough. I offered a bit of knowledge in the form of conversation, humoured them a bit in the hope of influencing and gave them our spare hutch. A couple of weeks later, holding back tears, one of the daughters offered us Theodore.

Theo & Justine

After a long period of growing up and a chasing-chittering courtship, Theo, it seems, finally fulfilled the mission begun by his counterpart, Jay. Karen's home-made double story hutch became Theo's new bachelor pad in order to prevent the possibility of another pregnancy following the birth of Justine's pups. Karen, in turn, moved back in with Justine, as our reading told us that she would act as midwife, helping Justine through the birth and the difficult early stages of motherhood.

On Wednesday night I was working on an urgent project for a friend. I fell into bed at 4.30am after researching and writing a short report. I awoke a little after 6am needing the toilet. On my journey there, I passed the maternal hutch and felt a moment of surreal horror as I saw what looked, in the dim pre-dawn light, like lumps of meat lying in the hay. I took a breath which was enough to remind me that I could handle whatever had happened and knelt by the hutch.

He was tiny, but his little face was raised to me and his barely audible squeaks spoke a primal plea that was answered in an instant from within me. I snatched him up, before my mind had even framed a thought. He was wet and so cold, I couldn't believe he was alive. I was shocked to find that the largest lump of meat was actually a black pup, three times the size of the runt I held in my hand, certainly no colder, but lifeless, the membrane over his face forming his death mask. I pulled it away with a single deft movement and rubbed his side with my finger. My bladder had raised the alarm too late for what would have been a fine strong pup, but for a quirk of outrageous fortune.

The other lump of meat was the placenta, ominously intact, a testament to a mother's complete rejection, for if a sow doesn't eat at least a little of the afterbirth, there will be no milk for her pups. (Dig that crazy circle.) Justine had hidden herself inside an old pair of baby pants. She seemed very frightened, but not hurt or sick, although it was hard to imagine how the gigantic pup had come from inside her. I might have hidden too in her place. It seems we did not warn her adequately of what was about to happen. In her panic, she failed to recognise her own; failed to realise that they were part of her - the best of her - her great miraculous life's achievement. In her terror she hid, while one suffocated and the other begged for life and her equally terrorised 'midwife' sought refuge inside the pigloo, barricading the door with more baby clothes to keep the horror at bay. So much for sisterly solidarity.

My heart sank, but I had assessed and triaged and only the runt required immediate attention. Carrying him in one hand, I grabbed the hot water bottle from my bed, turned the heaters on and huddled there with him, rubbing his cold wet body from tip to toe with my fingers to tell every last bit of him that he was alive and cared for and that someone desperately, oh so desperately, wanted him to live. I cut his umbilical cord with a pair of paper scissors and discarded it. He had only me to sustain him now.

I believe in the power of names and naming and so, later that first day, with my daughter's blessing, I named him Tamburlaine. I gave him a warrior's name, in the hope it would define, in stark clarity, every shred of strength within him with just a touch of whimsy thrown in to see him through the long cold nights ahead. And in bringing him into his life, I made myself his mother - loved and in love.

Palm pig

In the absence of tiny little cartons of guinea pig milk at the supermarket, Tamburlaine is subsisting, even thriving, it seems, on an unflavoured human nutritional drink. Infant guinea pigs cannot regulate swallowing and breathing, precluding feeding with a syringe or dropper, so Tamburlaine requires frequent spoon feeding...very frequent spoon feeding, in fact. If I fail to anticipate his hunger, he has learned to squeal insistently until his food is forthcoming. There are no nappies to change, which you may think a significant mercy, but instead, simulating a sow's tongue, I have to use a warm wet cotton bud to “massage the genitals after every feeding.” (The pup's, not mine.) I quote from Peter Gurney's The Proper Care of Guinea Pigs so that you know I'm not making it up for my own amusement. This helps the mini-pig go poo poo or wee wee; usually, as it happens, on my hand.

Waking, or being awoken every hour or two to feed him and waking more often than that in anxiety to just check on him; to touch him and know that he is breathing and safe and warm has led to a profound lack of sleep and if I don't sleep well, neither does DK, so closely linked are we, even after all this time. Thus, we have both succumbed to yet another miserable cold. I don't think we've been really healthy for more than a fortnight since April. This one seems the worst yet. It certainly is for DK and truly, I am in no fit state to give her the extra attention that is her right as a dear little girl with a minor, but uncomfortable illness. I am trying to hold up my end to some extent, even as I attempt to mother the mini-pig and nurse my own ills.