Sunday, April 26, 2015


Tomorrow my female staff is having a few tattoos done and family and friends are teasing her about it because she's always been somewhat vocal in her dislike of tattoos.  "Look at that pretty young girl with that stupid tattoo on her arm.  Imagine what it's going to look like when she's fifty and wrinkled."  Of course the "pretty young girl" is about nineteen and can't imagine what it must be like to be fifty any more than a fifty year old can imagine what it's like to be a jellyfish. In fact I believe that many nineteen year old human females look at fifty year old humans and think (or even say) "Eeww! Gross!" In the same way they would when they look at a jellyfish. Why then, is she having the tattoos? I hear you ask, not unreasonably.  It's all part of the preparation for her radiotherapy.  Tomorrow she will be placed into a machine and tattooed with four target dots so that when her treatment starts in earnest in about thee weeks time they can line her up, pull the trigger, or whatever, say FIRE! and she'll be zapped with a dose of radiation in exactly the right spot to exterminate any remaining cancer cells left behind after her breast tumour was removed a few weeks before.  She's hoping that whoever does the tattoos will be talented enough to draw her four target dots in the shape of guinea pigs and intends to take a photo of Baci, Alfie, Tom and Toby with her to the appointment so that their likeness can be copied onto her skin.  She'll also take along a photo of Paolo the budgie in case they need to do an extra dot for some reason.

My male staff also had to visit the doctor last week. It was time for his vitamin B12 jab which is supposed to stop him from falling asleep while out on his daily run.  He was also having trouble with his hearing for some reason.  Probably because he'd forgotten to clean his ears out for the last fifteen years and the vegetation growing within needed pruning.  Anyway, because my male staff's hearing was temporarily impaired he asked my female staff to go with him in case he couldn't hear what the doctors was saying.
 "Good morning." Said the doctor cheerily as my staff entered the room.
 "What did he say?" Asked my male staff.
 "He said good morning." My female staff informed him.
 "What seems to be the trouble.'  My male staff turned to my female staff again.
 "What did he say?"
 "He said what seems to be the trouble?"  My male staff pointed rather superfluously to his ears.
 "I can't hear."
 "Okay," said the doctor. "We'll take a look in a moment."
Again.  "What did he say?"
My female staff sighed deeply. "He said he'll take a look in a moment."
The doctor continued.  "First though we'll give you a thorough check up."
 "What did he say?"
Another, slightly more impatient sigh sigh.  "He's going to give you a thorough check up."
My male staff nodded and the doctor turned to get some sample jars from a shelf.  "I want you to give me a stool sample, a urine sample and a semen sample."
 "What did he say?"
 "Oh for Christ's sake!" Exclaimed my female staff.  "He say's he wants your underpants."

I thought that was completely uncalled for.  I know for a fact that my male staff changes his underpants meticulously every first of June.  Well actually that's not quite true, he turns them inside out and puts them back on on the first of June.  The actual changing of the underpants ceremony takes place on the first of December.  It is often attended by a senior member of the Royal Family and is marked with a twenty one gun salute.  Actually I made that last bit's only twenty guns.

In the end my male staff was given a clean bill of health, which means that my staff are free to travel to Botswana next week, when in his capacity as a reverse people smuggler my male staff (Ably assisted by my female staff.) will undergo a rigorous and exhausting series of inspections of luxury safari camps in and around the Okavango Delta region.  They will be forced to rough it in big soft king sized beds in en-suite tents that you could hold a circus in.  Fine wine and top shelf spirits will be poured down their throats and they will be force fed all sorts of exotic cuisine.  It's going to be hell.  Oh yes, and there might be time to see a few animals too.  Obviously I have to go with them in spirit to make sure they don't get trampled by a rogue meerkat or torn apart by an irate impala.  So, all being well I will recommence my regular weekly Monday blog posts on Monday the first of June, which coincidentally is the same day that my male staff is due to turn his underpants inside out.


Wile Uncal Billy's staff are in Africker me and Toby and Tom and Alfie are going to stay with Auntie Jody who like runs the Kweensland Ginny Pig Refyooge.  We're all like looking fourwood to this cos as I unnerstand it there are like lots of gurly pigs there and evun if we are stuck in our own cages at leest we'll all be abull to smell them and if me and the otha boys get the chance to have sum thyme alone with one of them gurly pigs look owt werld!  You'd betta like prepair yorself four a ninflucks of baby ginny pigs.

Friday, April 10, 2015

Thank You

I'm always wary of making rash statements because they often come back to bite you, like a guinea pig whose sprig of basil you have just snatched from under his twitching nose.  Nevertheless I must say this.  My staff are the luckiest humans on the earthly side of the Rainbow Bridge.  My female staff's breast tumour was spotted by an ultra vigilant GP only a couple of weeks after her biennial scan had given her the all clear.  Imagine how things might have turned out if the thing had been left to fester in her boob for another two years.  Quite honestly I shudder to think.  My staff's good luck then continued when the lumpectomy (surgical removal of the tumour) went smoothly and all the tests showed that there had been no spread to her lymph nodes, brain, bones or anywhere else.  They were made to wait for the results of the ER/HER2 test which came back as ER positive and HER2 negative whatever that means.  I guess the main thing is that it is the result we wanted and my female staff now only has to undergo a course of radiotherapy beginning in a few weeks time.  After that my staff have been assured by the surgeon that she will have no greater risk of contracting another cancer than any other member of the population and the chances of the original cancer recurring are nil.

My staff have other reasons to feel lucky too, apart from being fortunate enough to be chosen to take care of four guinea pigs.  They enjoy the umbrella of protection that I am able to afford them from my exalted position in Piggy Paradise.  I have taken it upon myself to see to it that nothing truly nasty ever happens to them, although there is nothing I can do to alleviate the embarrassment they suffer being governed by Prime Minister Abbott.  They just have to wait until the next General Election for the silly bugger to be voted out.  The "Big Guy Upstairs" (No not Clive Palmer.) has decreed that we deceased cavies are not allowed to interfere with the democratic process on earth, no matter how tempted we might be.  Most of all they are fortunate to have so many amazing Twitter friends and blog readers who have taken time out of their own busy lives and have forgotten their own troubles long enough to send my female staff positive thoughts, healing wishes and a steady stream of prayers.  My staff and I really, sincerely want to thank you all from the heart of our bottoms or whatever the human equivalent of that well known guinea pig saying is.  THANK YOU.

And so life continues; my female staff's operation wounds are healing beautifully, though she has been complaining that it feels as though she has a large lump in her armpit from where they removed the lymph nodes.  However, on closer inspection the lump turned out to be Baci.  She'd forgotten that she'd hid him there to smuggle him into the hospital because she couldn't bear to be without a piggy for a night.  Fortunately being a resourceful piggy Baci had had the good sense to hide amongst the hospital bed sheets when they come to take her to the operating theatre.  Then when she was returned and plonked onto the bed by the nurse in an even dopier state than usual he snuggled back into her armpit again.  A couple of days later when the "lump" had failed to improve she decided to go to her GP for his opinion on the lump.  My male staff thought he'd better attend too to show his concern for his darling spouse, and anyway it was her turn to buy the coffee and cake afterwards.

They were ushered into the doctor's room where they were invited to sit.  "Good morning." He said, ominously snapping on a pair of rubber gloves.  "How can I help today?"
 "Well," said my female staff. "Ive just had some lymph nodes removed and now I have this great big ugly lump."
 "Oh dear." Said the doctors looking at my male staff. "I see what you mean, but I'm really not sure I can help you with that."
 "No, not that lump. I know there's nothing anyone can do about that.  I have another ugly lump under my arm since the surgery and every time I put my bra on over it it squeaks."
 "Hmmmm" said the doctor rubbing his chin. "You'd better let me see."
Off came her blouse, up went her arm and there, trapped under her bra strap was Baci, his back legs and dangly bits hanging inelegantly beneath the strap and his head and front feet poking out from above it.
 "Wheek!" He exclaimed.
The doctor took a sharp backward step, then composed himself.
 "Ah yes," he said. "It's nothing to worry about. It's just a mole."


Eckskyoose me, but I've never bean so insulterated in my intyre life. Stoopid dokter calling me a moal! Do I look like a moal to yoo? Well, do I? No of coarse I don't.  Moals are silly blak miopyc  myapick  blind fings wot liv underground and like eet slugs and beatles and werms and rooin peepuls lorns and stuff.  Anyway I wuz like reely pleezed that I coodunt restrayn myself from byting the iddyott dokter wen he tried to get me owt from under Uncal Billy's femail staff's arm.