A Guinea Pig Story

This is a bit of a gruesome story about my daughter when she was a little girl and one of her pet guinea pigs. She’d had several at this point, but this one turned out to be really quite feisty and tried to nip anyone who stuck their hand in the cage. Well, one day it bit her on the hand, broke the skin, drawing a little blood and then that next morning we found the guinea pig dead in its cage. Oh boy, did I worry then. I thought for sure the animal had a disease and that he had transmitted it to Liza.

This all happened on a weekend and her older brother decided that we should burry the guinea pig in the park across the street from our apartment building. He took out an old shoebox and started to make a little resting place for the animal. I, on the other hand was thrown into a panic by the situation and I had to think quickly.

If Liza did come down with some kind or rare disease, or rabies how would we know if the animal had been buried in the ground and had rotted or some animal dug it up and carried it away. This dead animal had to be preserved somehow. So, I quickly brought the shoebox with the dead animal into the kitchen while Liza and her brother got dressed to head out for the funeral. I opened the box and without them knowing removed the animal, wrapped it in several plastic bags and stuck it in the freezer. My logic at the time was that I’d preserve any disease or testable problem that might have caused the demise of this furry pet. And then first thing on Monday morning I’d call the health department and ask their advice.

I put a carrot of something slightly heavy back into the box and tapped the lid shut. As Liza and her brother stood at the door, garden trowel in hand, ready to do the honorable thing, as her brother had called it, I handed them back the shoebox and off they went.

They returned in a half hour and said it had been done.

Liza’s father did not share my concern about the possibility of our daughter contacting something from the animal, but I did not sleep well that night worrying that my lovely daughter might be harboring some terrible disease.

First thing Monday morning I called the health department and told them my worrisome story. I surely thought they would be sympathetic and tell me where to take the animal for further testing. But when I told the man on the phone that I’d stored the guinea pig in the freezer, there was a long pose, and then he said, “Take it out of the freezer, lady. Throw it away. They die all the time. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

That night I did throw the frozen animal away. And I certainly hoped that the man I’d spoken with on the phone knew what he was talking about. I kept a watchful eye on Liza for several weeks though looking for signs of fever, suspicious spots and irritability, or other signs that I thought might indicate an illness. Nothing came of it though, except I can still remember thinking that I had to do everything that I could to guard my daughter against further harm. I don’t think I was too eager for her to have another pet after that incident.

We have a different refrigerator now, but it took me a long time before I could look into our old freezer without wondering if a guinea pig ghost might be hiding under the frozen peas or resting atop a package of ground beef.