Eaten By An Inca

Isn't it funny how New Year's Day makes one reflect upon certain things.  I've been sitting in my cage chewing the bark that Pea kindly provides me with for my entertainment.  Bark!  I ask you.  What about a game boy or something?  Anyway I've been thinking what a tumultuous 12 months the first year of my life has been.  Here I am a (not so) humble Australian cavy with aristocratic Peruvian ancestry living with Pea - an Australian Brit with dual nationality who was born in France and Chook who was born in Australia but who's father is a kiwi.  That's really strange.  How does that work?  What happens when your father is a kiwi?  Do you hatch from an egg?  And why hasn't Chook got a long curved nose, a fat feathery body and big feet.  Come to think of it she does have big feet!  She obviously got her looks from her mother though thank goodness.  Heaven knows where Pea got his looks from, but if I was him I'd ask for my money back.  Then there are the two budgies.  Paolo - well that's obviously Italian and Biggles who's named after a fictional British fighter pilot of World Wars one and two.  So you see, ours is a very cosmopolitan and multi-cultural household.

I also got to wondering how my ancestors first arrived here in Australia from Peru and why they decided to leave their homeland in the first place.  Maybe they just got sick of being eaten by the Incas and all piled into a boat, then having spent a suitable period of time in the Christmas Island refugee detention camp they were allowed in to Australia to become valuable citizens - or at least pets.  We all have different accents too.  Pea has this weird hybrid accent that I like to call Britstralian.  He says things like "I say old chap ahh ya gahn?  Oh jolly good.  Meself I'm a bit crook but."  Don't ask me what it means.  Chook's accent has managed to escape the ravages that swallowing too many flies inflicts on many Australian accents.  She actually opens her mouth when she speaks and doesn't often sound like an over-stimulated duck.  Paolo and Biggles both sound the same to me and I can't understand a word of it.  It's all peeps, whistles and chirps and the occasional squawk when one of them gets ratty with the other.  As for yours truly - I speak three languages fluently - Spanish, English and Cavy.  My Spanish is of the refined type spoken by high-born Peruvians.  None of that childish lisping that European Spaniards are afflicted with.  Barthelona indeed!!  Valenthia!!  Get yourthelveth a good thpeech pathologitht for goodneth thake.

I apologise for prattling on, but apart from this blog I've only got bits of bark to keep me occupied during the day.  It's like living in Tasmania! And so.  New Year's Day.  Time for a few resolutions I suppose.  Firstly I resolve not to squeal like a girl when startled.  It's undignified.  Secondly I resolve not to crap in my drinking water and thirdly I resolve to scatter as much of my bedding straw on the floor as I can so that Pea and Chook spend more time cleaning it up and less time molesting me.

Happy New Year.      

I'm Not A Racist, But...............

Chook says "You can tell if someone is a racist.  They'll often start a sentence - I'm not a racist, but............."
Well, I don't know about that.  I'm not a racist but I hate flying fox bats.  They've moved into our garden and have taken up residence in the tall palm trees behind the house.  There goes the neighbourhood.  You get one bat moves in and that's fine, but before you know it their whole bloody extended family has moved in with them.  I really hate the sound of their flapping wings and high pitch squeaking.  It makes me shudder and I was most offended when Pea said that if only I had wings I'd both look and sound like a flying fox.  Remind me to bite his finger next time he puts his hand in my cage!

The bat issue most be quite a problem Australia wide.  Just the other day I was reading one of the articles  on one of the sheets of newspaper that line the bottom of my cage.  Apparently some bloke called Tony Abbott wants to stop the bats so much he made it the main platform of his recent attempt to become the Prime Minister of Australia.  His election slogan was "Turn Back the Bats."  At least that's what I think it said because I'd inadvertently crapped on the article which made it difficult to read.  No doubt we've all encountered that problem at one time or another.  Anyway, I'd vote for him.

Actually I'd vote for anyone who can stop the rain that's been falling in these parts for weeks.  It doesn't effect me directly in that I don't get my fur wet because I live indoors.  However, it does mean that Pea and Chook are unable to get out as much and so they spend more time molesting yours truly.  I'm constantly being pulled from my cage, often in the middle of a nap.  Pea or Chook will then plonk me on their lap and stroke me or brush my hair for an hour and tell me what a cutie I am as if I didn't know that already.  They haven't even had the good manners to learn Cavy which makes communication a little difficult.  I can only sit still and soak up that sort of thing for a certain amount of time, but when I've had enough I can't just say "Thank you that was very nice.  Now would you mind putting me back in my cage."  They wouldn't understand me.  So I've developed a system of biting their clothes when I've had enough.  Nothing vicious you understand, just a little tug with the old incisors.  Unfortunately last time I tried this with Chook she was wearing a rather snug fitting pair of track pants so my pearly whites sank into the inside of her thigh - apparently quite a tender spot for humans.  The yelp this little nip produced was most gratifying and was very effective in that I was immediately returned to my cage.  I might try that again next time.   

The Boxing Day Test Match

So, my very first Christmas Day is over.  I don't know what all the fuss was about.  It didn't seem any different to any other day really.  I sat in my cage eating vegetables and periodically being molested by either Pea or Chook.  I watched TV and in the evening had a run around the floor.  The only thing that stands out is that I almost wet my fur when a dirty great possum appeared at the window while I was admiring the view.  Pea and Chook thought it hilarious when I leapt a foot in the air and squealed like a girl, but I'd like to see how they'd react when confronted unexpectedly by a pink nosed furry thing ten times their size!

Boxing day is over and done with too.  Don't know why it's called boxing day.  Pea says that it's because the day after Christmas Day is traditionally when most family fights break out, but I don't know whether or not to believe him - he's such a fibber.  Anyway, boxing day is obviously the main  religious and spiritual day of the Christmas holidays.  Pea and I sat and watched the TV as over eighty thousand worshippers filed into a holy site called the Melbourne Cricket Ground and after the national anthems of England and Australia had been sung a whole lot of dudes in white marched onto the field and a game of cricket broke out.  Pea loves his cricket, especially when England are beating Australia, which apparently doesn't happen that often so he makes the most of it when it occurs.  He's perplexed that Americans (who seem to have no trouble understanding the impenetrable laws of gridiron) find cricket so confusing.  Pea explained the rules to me and they seemed straightforward enough, so if a guinea pig can understand them surely even an American can at least grasp the basics .  So for the benefit of (both) my American readers here is my understanding of the game of cricket.

Each team has eleven players.  One team bats and the other fields. Only two batsmen are in at a time.  The others are not yet out but are inside.  When one of the two batsmen who are in is out another batsmen who was inside comes out and is then in.  The batsman who was formerly in but is now out goes inside and gets drunk.
When the next batsman who was in outside gets out he too is replaced by another  batsman who is not yet out.  This new batsman comes out and is in until he too is out, whereby he goes in and because he is out gets drunk.  Then.............Oh look, just forget it.  Stick to baseball!

My First Christmas

I'm about to experience my first Christmas, and if I'm honest I'm really not looking forward to it. Pea keeps mumbling about how he hates this time of year. "You can never get a car park, the shops are always packed with people so fat they can hardly squeeze their great wobbling backsides down the aisles and the TV ads scream at you not to "Miss out," like there won't be a sale on Boxing Day when you can buy the same crap for half the price." That was one of his better rants. Mostly he just shambles about the house muttering "Bah Humbug!"

My cage is conveniently situated next to the TV so as cavies go I'm pretty well informed and I have to admit that Pea seems to have a point. The TV news lately has been full of images of snowbound airports in Britain and people queuing around the block at London railways stations. It seems that the TV interviewers always find a foreigner to whinge about the situation. Presumably the British just say "Oh well, you know, mustn't grumble.  I've been camping at Heathrow for three weeks now but there's plenty of tea and digestives so things could be worse."

I'm led to believe that Christmas is a Christian celebration of the birth of Jesus about two thousand years ago but the only time I hear the word Jesus is when a Harvey Norman advert appears on the TV and Pea says "Jesus Christ!  Not another bloody Harvey Norman ad!"  Actually the only Christmas tradition that Pea and Chook seem to participate in is that of eating too much and drinking more than is prudent.  Even a guinea pig can tell when someone has had one too many.  Chook, who apparently works in something called the "health field", (It must get cold and wet working all day in a field - even a so called health one.) says that the hospitals are always full at Christmas.  Pea said that it was no wonder that Jesus was born in a stable.  The hospitals were probably full of dorks who in drunken stupors had set fire to the Christmas tree and tried to put out the blaze with a bottle of brandy.

Anyway, rest assured dear readers that I will be quite happy in my cage munching on an endless supply of beans and carrots and watching the Queens Christmas message on telly.  Pea and Chook are just looking forward to January 2nd.  Merry Christmas!

Demented Blue Bat

It took me a couple of days to find my feet in my new surroundings. I have to tell you it was pretty scary. I've never been kissed and cuddled so much in my life. Pea and Chook are seriously deranged. At least that what I thought at first. Now I know they're only mildly insane and not really a danger to the public.

I share the house with a couple of budgies who are apparently called Paolo and Biggles. They live in cage on the other side of the room from where they toss feathers onto the floor and chirp a lot. Biggles likes to fly around while Pea and Chook clean his cage. This is rather alarming and I usually hide in my red shelter when he's flapping around in case he has a bit of an accident while flying overhead. Paolo seems much more sedate and sits in his house the whole time admiring himself in the mirror or hanging upside-down like a demented blue bat.

Now, the worst thing about living in Australia (Apart from Home And Away.) can be the heat and humidity. Especially living - as I do - in Queensland's Sunshine Coast hinterland, and even more especially when you're wearing (permanently I might add) a bloody great full length fur coat. On hot December days when both the temperature and humidity are soaring I tend to sit in my drinking water. This has the dual benefits of cooling me down and giving Chook a nasty shock when she picks me up. Pea suggested wringing me out and hanging me on the washing line by my ears, but thankfully this idea was rejected by Chook as my ears would have stretched, leaving me looking like a sawn-off rabbit.

So all in all I've settled in at Pea and Chook's house and to be frank things could be a lot worse. I get fed twice a day and if I want attention all I have to do is poo in my drinking water and squeal and someone is sure to come running. I run around the floor most nights when Pea and Chook are watching television, so I get a bit of exercise and if I squeal while I run it seems to amuse Pea and Chook no end. If only they knew what I was saying. Usually its "Oi! You two! Can one of you put me back in my cage I'm dying for a slash."

The Horse Thermometer

Readers kind enough to glance at my first blog will remember that I called it "Squashy Droppings." This title does not refer to some quaint little English village tucked away in a fold of the Cotswold hills. No, it refers to the product of my bottom passage - as I like to call it. You will recall that I had just been forcibly evicted from my previous home and made to live with a big ugly bloke who strongly resembles a proboscis monkey on steroids and his rather gorgeous partner who strongly resembles me. They call each other "Pea" and "Chook". Pea being the big ugly one.

I overheard them discussing how they had kidnapped me. Apparently Pea had seen a sign in the window of a local shop that read "Beautiful Guinea Pig free to a good home." Imagine how betrayed I felt to hear that! So that's how I came to be where I am now. Hah! Free guinea pig my furry foot! The cage that I came with was so dilapidated that Pea immediately went out and bought a new one along with all sorts of toys, a big red plastic shelter and an industrial sized bag of guinea pig food. I heard him tell Chook it had set him back about $160 all up. The woman in the pet shop had also offered him a guinea pig harness at which he drew the line. Just as well because I wouldn't be seen dead in it. About this time Pea and Chook realised that I was not well. My bottom passage continued to produce some particularly nasty odours, not to mention the omnipresent squashy droppings.

One visit to the vet later and Pea and Chook's bank account was another $80 lighter. How proud I was to be the world's most expensive free guinea pig. I really could have done without the visit to the vet though. I'm sure he used a horse thermometer instead of the one meant for small cute animals like yours truly. Pea said at the time that my eyes bulged as the vet inserted the implement into my nether regions. His would too if he'd just had something the size of a baseball bat shoved up his bottom passage.

Squashy Droppings

So anyway, about 6 months ago I really was feeling a little off. You know, upset tummy, squirty bottom etc. To be honest I didn't smell particularly pleasant either, which is probably why the other guinea pigs didn't really want to have anything to do with me. Can't blame them. Every time they came within range they were hit with a blast of smelly wind and ran the risk of treading in one of my squashy droppings. Not that I should have too much sympathy for them. It was probably one of them that gave me the shits in the first place.

Then it happened! I was happily munching on a piece of day old carrot when this dirty great hand reaching into the cage, clamps itself around my rumbling stomach and drags me into the fresh air before I could even think about releasing one of my silent but deadlies. I'm handed over to this tall dude with a big nose and sticky- out ears and he cuddles me to his chest like I'm his long lost brother or something, which clearly I'm not because I'm far to handsome to be related to this geezer.

After a period of somewhat effeminate gooing and gahing (He did at least have the good grace to say that I was "a gorgeous little thing". Talk about stating the bleedin' obvious.) he handed me over to this chick for another dose of cuddling and gooing and gahing. At least the chick was better looking and she smelled nice too, not all sweaty like the bloke. I gazed up at her. It was like looking in a mirror. She had brown eyes like mine and blonde streaked hair, also like mine. She was the most beautiful human I'd ever seen. Not that that is saying much let's face it - horrible pallid, hairless things on the whole.

Next thing I new I was in their car and being transported to their house. Bloody marvelous isn't it? No one asked me my opinion. No one said "Excuse me Billy, but would you mind if these strange people took you away from the only home you've ever known, nice cosy, familiar surroundings and all your family and friends." Did I get a say in the matter? No I bloody didn't.