A Tale of Two Piggies. Actually Just One.

My dear San Francisco friend, Lauren, (technically, neither of us are in the Bay area anymore, but that is where our love first blossomed) commented on my last post asking about, "Scooter." Because I am (always) in a story telling mood, and because it occurred to me that this part of my life has not yet been documented, I felt immediately compelled to share with you a riveting story of Love, Hate, Loss and Betrayal. A tale I simply call, "A Guinea Pig's Story."

Ahem.

Several months after Sam and I moved to San Francisco, I started to feel the itch to nurture. We weren't ready to have babies yet, and we didn't want the long term commitment of a dog, and Sam is allergic to cats (at least he had fooled me into thinking he was up to this point) so naturally, when I got online to search the local animal shelters and found this little gem:

Scooter "The Pig" McGavin:

... I knew it was a match made in heaven. I was in love. I sounded the alert and we hopped in the car and ventured off to claim our pig. We arrived at the shelter, and after finally bypassing the dude trying to sell us on a rooster, we were introduced to Scooter (named Willie at the time). We knew it was meant to be and felt good about adopting him, so after passing no less than a full body cavity search by San Francisco's SCPA regulators, we brought him home to our apartment.

Once we settled in, we gazed adoringly at each other. And at our new little addition. And watched him explore his new home. And take his first dump, thus soiling the new stuffing we had just lovingly used to cushion his cage. And in an instant, we hated him.

It's not that he wasn't a good pig. He had his endearing moments. Like the way he would screech and squeak up a storm the second we walked in from work, begging for food. And his squeaking and screeching would turn to violent bulldozing (of stuffing and food dishes, etc.) as soon as he heard the rustling of his bag of "greens."

But he was mostly just gross and useless. With his ever growing flowing locks and affinity for peeing in his food dish. His fur required more maintenance than my own {fur}. I would bathe him and then have to brush and blow dry his coat to keep it from matting and entangling his tiny man-parts in a painful little man-part noose. And Sam and I would fight about who had to change out his stuffing once he made our apartment start to stink.

One time we left him in the care of one of my coworkers while we went on vacation. And when we went to pick him up, she had just left him outside on the front porch of her apartment building. I'm not sure how long he had been there. But later, she told me that he had purposefully scooped his stuffing out of his cage and on to her floor whenever she swept or vacuumed, just to taunt her. And that he would only squeak when she turned on the TV, purposefully ruining her television experience. It appears he was a very vindictive guinea pig. Another of my coworkers reported that she (the caretaker) had been involved in spreading vicious rumors about Scooter around the office while I was gone. And I was certain he suffered severe abuse at her hand that week.

When I became pregnant with Leah and my pregnancy progressed to the point where we knew it would continue full term, we became concerned with what to do with Scooter. We certainly didn't want to have him around after the baby was born and my sensitive pregnant nose could handle him no longer.

And then one morning, just before the Christmas of 2007, as if he knew he was no longer wanted, we were awakened by the sound of struggling from little Scoot's cage. The scene was heartbreaking. He was laying on his side, struggling to breathe. And every couple of minutes his little body would become all mangled up in seizure as he fought through the last moments of his life. He continued this way for a half hour until he tensed and relaxed for the last time in my hands. And Scooter "The Pig" McGavin was gone.

We shed a few tears, and held each other close, and wrapped him in a Victoria Secret bag, and put him out on our balcony until we could dispose of him properly.

That evening, Sam and I returned from work with one question, "what the crap are we gonna do with Scooter?" We lived right downtown. There was no backyard or field we could bury him in. We researched online for answers to what people in San Francisco do with their perished animals and were dismayed to read that they pay hundreds of dollars to have them laid to rest in pet cemeteries. Ummm no. Only in San Francisco. Weirdos.

Finally we hatched a plan and waited until late that night to execute. We donned super awesome ninja clothing (completely necessary), gathered flashlights, a large pie serving utensil for digging, our makeshift Victoria Secret coffin, and scurried down to our apartment building's atrium.

We approached the least conspicuous of several very large, concrete planter boxes, and I stood guard while Sam began furiously digging out a little grave in the soil. I whispered, "How's it coming?" to which Sam proceeded to ditch his loot, and me, and run off in a panic towards the nearest exit. When I finally retrieved him, he explained that he thought I had said, "Someone's coming!" and had, on instinct, panicked and fled the scene, George Costanza style. (This is the BETRAYAL part of the story, in case you were wondering).

We finished the job hastily... dumping Scooter's little body in the freshly dug, single foot hole and bolted back up to our apartment. Then we peed ourselves with laughter and high-fived a job well done, the subsequent high of our delinquent behavior serving to mend the pain of our loss.

We avoided that atrium for a few weeks, but finally decided it was time to revisit our handy work, and pay our respects. We were shocked and disturbed when we approached our potted tombstone and noticed a tiny, crooked, skeletal Scooter hand sticking up out of the soil. It was then that we realized we had buried him alive!

Jk. But it would have been creepy if we did.

We didn't ever revisit it, actually. We avoided that atrium like the plague until we moved out of our apartment. But I kinda like that we buried him there. Our first pet as a married couple, forever part of our first apartment building. Unless they repotted those planters.

Now, let's all share a moment of silence for Scooter.

The End