Pee-Wee was my first Guinea Pig and was adorable, crafty and fun. I got him from a bin in the backyard of some lady’s garage sale in Baraboo, Wisconsin. Yes, there is such a place. Maren Berge’s Mom drove us up there to see Barnum & Bailey’s Circus World Museum. (yes, there is such a place.) Baraboo sold T-shirts that had “See Yoo, in Baraboo” written on them on them in a font very similar to “Rage Italic”. Stopping at this random garage sale in the middle of nowhere was a little unfornseen perk for Mrs. Berge. It was also a great chance for me to collect a pet that had not been officially consecrated by my own Mother, but consecrated by proxy via Mrs. Berge. I carefully held him on my lap the whole drive home (55 min) and was even more careful to collect all the poop he had dropped during that time before leaving the car.
Ah, goodtimes.
Pee-Wee was shorthaired, small, fearless and the best colors of calico. I used to put him in my bike basket and cruise around the ‘hood. For those of you who aren’t in the know, guinea pigs make this terrifying, shrieking sound that sounds somehow like a cross between a buzz and a whistle. Having this sonic accompaniment to my rides, without people knowing where the sound was coming from or what it was, in my mind, helped to build a mysterious allure to my personality.
Summer got hot and humid in Wisconsin. 90 degrees with 95 percent humidity sort of hot. I found Pee-Wee passed out in his cage and he would not respond to my gentle poking and prodding. I filled up the sink with cool water and slipped him into the refreshing pool. He popped up in the air, thrashing his arms and legs wildly like he was being electrocuted or fighting a great white shark. I scooped him up in a fluffy towl and patted him dry. His whole body was pounding a fast heart beat and I figured out then that he was suffering from heat stroke.
My Mom’s room was the only room in the house that had an air conditioner. I took him in there, turned the air conditioner on, making sure the control knob was set to “cold” and “high”. I layed him on top, still wrapped in his towel, and left him there to cool down.
I came back later that night and he was as rock hard like as an ice cube. I could pick his whole body up by his little rat foot, a rodent popsicle. I can’t say if he died from heatstroke or from being frozen by the air conditioner.
