Halloween morning, my husband called me down to the playroom to check on Chicken-Pop, our sweet guinea pig. Chicken-Pop wasn’t moving much, or really at all. We tried giving her some lettuce (one of her favorite snacks), but she refused to take a bite. I picked up Chicken-Pop to snuggle with her, and could hear her breathing catch a little with each breath. For the first time ever, Chicken-Pop bit me, which may have been because of the lettuce my husband put on my shoulder, but I’m pretty sure it was because she wasn’t feeling well. Either way, it made me feel even worse for her, because she just wasn’t herself. It wasn't very long before Chicken-Pop passed away, and we were all very sad. Ok, N doesn’t really understand death yet, so he wasn’t so much sad as he was confused about where exactly his beloved guinea pig had gone.
After her passing, my husband was very clear – “No more guinea pigs. Do not bring home anymore animals.” Well, I’m not great at following directions, especially when I’m on cold medicine, so tonight I brought home our newest family members, Spanky and Alfalfa. My husband is a great sport, and helped me carry our new additions in. He didn’t even fuss at me once (although I’m pretty sure I caught him shaking his head).
Oh, and I am pretty sure the names will be changing. Not that I don’t like the Little Rascals, but I think it is weird for my kids to call anything Spanky. Also, I think guinea pigs eat alfalfa hay, so naming one Alfalfa is the equivalent of naming your kid Hamburger or Pop-tart. Weird, right? Yeah, I think so too.