The Guinea Pig Accident

If you’ve known me for any length of time, you’ll know I love animals. I’ve always had them in my life — dogs, hamsters, fish, budgies and guinea pigs. As yet, no cats. Perhaps I like too much attention to let a cat steal the show.

One of my hobbies has been breeding animals. I have bred budgies, fish and guinea pigs. When I was 13, I started with six budgies, and in a few years had 24. Likewise, I bred guinea pigs in my teenage years and twenties. I sold them or gave them to great homes.

When I moved into my current house I was pleased that it has a large garden with plenty of grass. I knew I would succumb to the temptation eventually, and I did — I bought three guinea pigs. Two girls, and one boy.

They’re beautiful, and I looked forward to breeding them. Between them they had 9 beautiful babies (there were 10, but one sadly died).

Then it was time to sell them. Except there has been one significant change in my life since I last bred guinea pigs. I now have a partner. He’s soppy and loves cute animals (spiders don’t count as cute in his book — they result in mild terror). He wanted to keep all of them, and because I love him I let him have his wish. Well, a part of it. We sold four females to friends and kept the rest. I was left with eight guinea pigs, across four hutches. I had to clean them out each week, feed and water them every day and look after them. All tiring hard work, but worth it for the squeaks and cuddles.