juushika: Photograph of the torso and legs of a female-bodied figure with a teddy bear. (Bear)
Thank you all for your condolences. As always for this sort of thing, that's what I'd be saying each time: Thank you, thank you. I am grateful. I'm just also tired.

So here's the thing. It wasn't until the last year or two that the fact of my grandmother's death really hit me. She'd died some five years before. I've written about this—in some depth when Dink died, and in passing mentions when Alfie died, and I keep meaning to sit down and really explore the issue but, no surprise I suppose, it's one I don't want to explore while I'm coping with it—but: I don't miss people, and as such I find it difficult to comprehend death. I tend to see the past as a bad memory and the future as a terror, but the bulk of my brain lives chronically in the here and now. I don't have a good grasp of trends over time or general histories, and there are some things I find it hard to project forward. And I don't miss anyone. I have a healthy sense of nostalgia and can get lonely, and I can miss the stimulation associated with certain social interactions, but with the exception of Devon I don't specifically miss anyone when they're not there. I can go months without remembering to contact my immediate family, and it's not them, it's me: it just doesn't occur to me that I should. I suppose it's a little hard to explain.

Death is the knowledge that you'll be missing for the rest of your life. Without missing, and with a poor concept of the past and future, I don't really understand death. People go away, but I never really need or expect their return, and there's no sense of loss.

But December last year or so I was talking with my mother about the upcoming (second) cruise and realized that my grandmother was dead. She died when I was a freshman in college, and I went to her service with almost no trace of emotion; there's some uneasiness between my family and my grandfather's second wife, because of how soon he remarried and because she's so insistent on the ease with which we (grown) grandchildren should adopt her as replacement grandmother. I saw those grandparents about twice a year as a child and biyearly as an adult, and (socially) I take after that side of the family, which means we were relatively close.

And it bothers me that my grandmother is dead. It bothers me because of the fallout it's had on my family and my (lack of) relationship with my grandfather, but it bothers me also because while we didn't have the emotional resonance that some people have in these relationships, I was always so much my grandmother's kin; and while she wasn't remarkable in any expected sense of the word, my grandmother was a memorable and irreplaceable woman who I will never see again. It's not a keen sense of loss, it's not like I'm finally cognizant of that loss and just now beginning the grieving process. It's that the grieving process was, for me, all number of years spent not knowing it was going on, and then I came out somewhere near the other end going: Oh. This death upset me.

I'm afraid this will happen with Madison.

It's not unfair to compare a cat to a grandmother. Animals are people, to me; I spent more time with Madison than with my grandmother; I know from my experiences with losing Dink and Alfie that while the circumstances are different, the basics of my grieving process is the same. I also know—especially with the loss of Alfie—that I am better, now, at conceptualizing loss and death, and I know what helps me do that. I know that seeing his body freed me, not because it released me from my pain but because it triggered it, allowing me to experience a more immediate, intense, and timely grieving process. I'm not at peace with his loss now, but I'm so much closer to that than I would have expected to be. Where my sister can still mourn pets we lost ten years ago, I can finally comprehend those losses ten years later; that I have come so far in understanding Alfie's death is remarkable.

Madison is dead and buried. I have no control here, no immediacy. I can't trigger and embrace my grieving process. I barely feel like I'm entitled to one because of my lack of involvement—Devon didn't even tell me that she had died until they had already buried her. I understand that that seemed like a reasonable response of their end, and they're entitled to it. Not everyone finds solace in freezing a corpse for later inspection which, and let's be frank here, is pretty reasonable. And I know it's not as feasible with a cat, no matter how small. I know that she wasn't my pet in the way that the pigs were, and so I can't make demands about the disposal of her body.

But I love this cat. I suggested her name—an M name for a tabby with a classic M forehead marking, and also one of my favorite names, a name I'd always wanted to use for a pet. When she was young she used to be a wild beast (they nicknamed her Kerrigan), but I used to pick her up, hold the scruff of her neck so she couldn't bite, and enforce socialization—and bit by bit it began to work. When they finally spayed her (after years of reminders and promises that it would change her behavior), she became an entirely different cat—calmer, tamer, and fonder too of soft bedding and warm corners. It got to the point where she would purr when I picked her up—she, this half-feral five-pound wildbeast. I was the one that groomed the mats out of her cheeks, and she didn't even mind that.

Madison is the cat that taught me to be a cat. Dude is the lovable confident man of the house, and he and I get on famously—but in Madison I saw myself: not specific character traits, but the existence of character, the knowledge that each cat is a life, entity, person onto themselves, that they don't always (or often) conform to feline clichés but are nonetheless wholly themselves and wholly cat. Madison was my sister-cat, who taught me about sleeping in a circle and finding hidden corners and having tufts of fur in the ears and a poofy tail.

Intellectually I know that she's gone, and clearly some of that hit home because she I first heard the news my fingertips went numb—there was something there, some realization. And now when I run idle for a few minutes my thoughts come back to Madison is dead or and we found Madison dead earlier and they buried her with this sort of dryness—it's literally just the words, like a line of black type in the middle of a white sheet of paper. I don't know what happens after that, because I just get the white, the blank, the rest of the naked page, or I find something to do (which, today, apparently isn't sleep) so that I'm not thinking about it any more.

But that's it: a few words on a blank page. I cried on and off when Devon first told me, but I've been numb since then and I'm not sure when that will change. I'm worried that it won't. I'm on the fringes of this and not allowed in. I wasn't there, because I'm not her family. I can't turn to Devon for help because he was there and he's hurting from this too, and it's not right to compound or to trample over his grief. I can't engage with the rest of the family because I blame them and I don't want to recieve their comfort or share their grief—they were the ones that decided to make Madison indoor/outdoor and while I know that wasn't malicious, and that you can carry the the guilt of a death and still be a decent human being (as I feel about what happened with Dink), this is still something that could have been prevented and so yes, there is anger there. I will never see her corpse, and never say goodbye.

When I think of her I remember her sleeping curled, but when they found her she was on her side, dead, with blood in her mouth.

I'm angry about what happened, and I feel isolated and denied by my lack of involvement, and I don't want to be brokenhearted and grieving too but I would rather have that—violent and miserable and cathartic—than feel this hanging over my head: the loss I should feel, and can't understand; the experience that I don't know I'm engaging with, and may not resolve for weeks or years. And then I'll finally go: Oh. This is what it means that she's dead.

Maybe it'll make sense the next time I'm in Corvallis and she's not there. I don't know. I feel guilty, as always, about making this about me and my grieving process and my issues instead of about her—because it is all about her. She was a remarkable little beastie and I wish you could have known her. She used to stare at her reflection for hours. She used to suckle on microfleece blankets. She used to curl up so tiny—she was a remarkably small cat, and half of that was still fluff. She was bizarre and beautiful and she's dead, so there's that. But I don't know what to make of it, yet, and it scares me.
juushika: A black and white photo of an ink pen. (Writing)
Because life is nothing if not ever ironic, I followed up yesterday's journey towards self-actualization post by having a wretched afternoon followed by a sobbing breakdown. I don't even know what to tell you.

Well, that's not quite true. I have lots to tell. For one thing, I understate the frustration which comes with steps forward: each one shows me how long the path is, and it is so long, and that's intimidating and wretched. I am not good at forward progress (call it the story of my life), and so as good as it feels to take each step it comes with a certain knowledge, even if it's one I'm working to controvert, that I will never get to the destination.

For another, Devon's father is back from Arizona. I won't pretend that I made perfect use of the sometimes-empty house while he was gone, but I made some use and even more important was the ability to do so: it was liberating and calming to know that I could leave the room, make myself meals, and visit the guinea pigs without worrying about sharing my space. Losing that option makes me trapped and stressed and regretful, and it's wearing on me. Is that horribly ungrateful? Of course it is: oh hey, thanks for letting me live here without rent, now will you all shove off and leave me alone? I know how entitled that is. But the fact of the matter is that it still leaves me feeling like shite.

For one more, I used the opportunity to the empty house to spend more time with the guinea pigs; now that the house is full again, my relationship with them is in crisis. This is not something I talk about: as honest as I am about my laundry list of illnesses, I find it difficult and shaming to talk about the concrete effects that they have on me and my loved ones. But the fact of the matters is that I've lately been a shitty caretaker to the pigs lately, because they live in a public space and being in a public space exhausts me (and moving them to a private space is impossible). They've been giving a fraction of the care and attention they deserve; I'm convinced Dink's death may have been avoidable if I had been more involved in their lives at the time. All of this guilt has, with no amount of irony, made it difficult to reconnect with them—it makes seeing them that much more taxing, and I continue to miss and mourn Dink with ... with a passion, with a strength that tears my heart to pieces. It's been a long battle to convince myself that I can love and care for them, even as I am, even without him. And as soon as things started to get to that healthier point, Doug came back. I don't know what I can or should do, and it scares the everloving shit out of me.

On one hand, the sobbing breakdown was wonderful in the way that catharsis can be: it's a violent relief but a relief nonetheless, and I felt ... not better, afterward, but pleasantly hollow and clean. But I know that feeling is deceptive: I may feel better about these issues today, but they will still exist tomorrow—and worse, the fact that I feel better about them makes me less driven to try to find a way to solve them.

If they can be solved at all.

Both sides of this are still true. I am taking steps towards becoming myself—the best me. I am still so far away from that goal that getting there seems impossible.
juushika: Screen capture of the Farplane from Final Fantasy X: a surreal landscape of waterfalls and flowers. (Anime/Game)
Haven't done one of these in a while, have I? I come bearing pigspam. With bonus cat! and dog! and video!

Alfie, outside
Om nom nom nom nom. )

Woof'll do that more or less endlessly when they're outside, pausing only to sit by their cage and stare at them while she catches her breath. The pigs are her babies, her beloveds, and few things bring her more joy than pseudo-herding them. (Woof is currently fighting a skin infection, and so has irritation and missing fur on her rump. You probably didn't notice it before, but you will now; regardless, rest assure that she's being treated.)

The outside enclosure is the top of the travel/temporary pig cage, stuck in the middle of the yard; Devon's dad mowed around it so that the pigs would have lush burrowable grass within.

When uploading the video I wandered back to my older guinea pig vids, which include Dink. As much as I don't miss, I don't mourn, as much as these concepts are to me foreign ... I miss him. Not constantly, not daily, but watching him—my lovely, my sweetheart, chocolate-brown with that pointy nose and his big ears and his little white spots, his intelligent eyes, his liveliness—my heart breaks all over again and I want nothing more than to hold him. All the better reason to celebrate the pigs that remain, but—

But what, I don't even know. I love him and wish he were still here.

The irony (if that's word for it) is that the other day I took Kuzco out and he was acting listless and sleepy, and I was instantly worried. I kept a close eye on him all day, but his eyes and nose were sparkling clear, he was pudgy, and mostly it just seemed that he wanted to sleep. I was checking on him late that evening when I found out that Devon's father had taken the pigs out earlier that day, and Kuzco got fifteen minutes more than Alfie (because Alfie started being a butthead). He wasn't sick. He wasn't off his food. He was full.

So, yes. The blessing is that I still have batshit crazy pig and adorable tiny pig, and even if my baby has left me there is still great joy to be found in those two boys, and they are healthy—and well.
juushika: Drawing of a sleeping orange cat. (Default)
Madison still has not left the guinea pig cage, which she entered when we cleaned it last weekend and filled it with Carefresh bedding. Well she has, of course, but she's chosen it as her new home and bed and comes back there whenever she's done running around for the day—despite family attempts to remove her from the cage (she just jumps back in a few minutes later) and despite Kuzco's perhaps-accidental, perhaps-targeted habit of peeing in her spot whenever she does vacate (she finds a new one, or else waits until it's dry again).

What can I say, the cat loves her Carefresh.

So I have pictures, of course—of Madison, with cameo by pigs, although somehow this largely turned into a illustrated devolution of Madison's grace and dignity. For those who are forgetful or new, since I've visited these subjects in a while: Madison is my boyfriend's family's cat, a batshit tiny gray tabby who's just learned to appreciate people-beasts; Alfie is the pink-eyed-white guinea pig and Kuzco is the honey and brown pig, and they live separated by bars because they have never, ever gotten along: Alfie has the self-awareness of a rock and Kuzco has a Napoleon complex, and that's a poor combination.

Madison asleep in the guinea pig cage
+2: the motley crew, and Maddy's face. )

Alfie was restless today so I gave each of the pigs a paper bag (and then threw the cat outside, because while she ignores the pigs I don't think she could ignore a vibrating paper bag, and I don't need her batting at a guinea pig toy), and for the first time since Dink died I saw Alfie popcorn—and then he immediately can to the cage bars and tried his damnedest to break through to Kuzco's side. It was heart-stirring and heart-breaking all within just a couple of seconds: he's happier but he's lonely, and I have no fix for that. I can offer him things to chew and hide in which help keep him occupied at least, but I can't give him cuddles to replace a cagemate (Alfie sometimes tolerates but never enjoys human company) and I can't give him a cagemate either. The split cage is a decent compromise, but it's hardly perfect.

I don't mourn—missing beings that are gone just isn't a skill I possess—but I am well-practiced with guilt and I still feel so much of it over Dink's death. Alfie, love, how I wish I could bring him back to you.

They are adorable beasties, though, all of them. (Kuzco was thrilled with his bag too.)

Adopt one today! Adopt one today! Adopt one today! Adopt one today! Adopt one today! Adopt one today! Adopt one today!
juushika: Drawing of a sleeping orange cat. (I should have been born a cat)
Thank you all for your comments and support following Dink's passing. It's much appreciated.

Devon was an absolute angel yesterday, rushing home to cuddle me when I found out and making sure I was comfortable and comfortably distracted last night.

I am often petrified of the future, but I tend to live very firmly in the present. So much so that it's one of the hallmarks of my depression: if I feel unhappy at a given moment, I believe in my heart that I will always feel that unhappy, that I always have been that unhappy, that change is impossible. It makes one casual depressed evening into a lifetime of suffering. But as a corollary to living in the moment, I don't really miss things. I have a poor, fragmented memory and I don't anticipate the future (I'm more likely to dread it). When I'm apart from a friend, a family member, a pet, I don't miss them. I don't look forward to a time when I can interact with them again, I don't reflect fondly on a past when we were together. It makes me a pretty miserable friend and daughter and sister, really. Not being wanted tends to make people feel, well, unwanted.

I don't miss the family pets that died before my family went to England: not Sunshine, our beautiful and sweet Sun Conure who used to dance to "You are my Sunshine"; not Cokie, our chocolate lab that I had grown up with. I don't miss the friends that I left behind when I came back from England, although Lizzie was one of the best friends that I've ever had and whether or not she knows it, she changed my life. As incredibly displaced as I was at Whitman I didn't miss my family so much as I missed Oregon; I can go months now without going home and I don't miss my folks. When my grandmother died it never really hit home, I never really cried, and I don't miss her now, as fondly as I think of her. Devon is the only exception, the only person I ever really miss—after more than a day apart I yearn for him, so let me tell you those four years lived long distance were miserable. But he is, indeed, the exception to all of my rules.

I cried when I found Dink, cried and panicked and needed help to get him out of the cage. I cried when I let the pigs and Woof say their goodbyes. Cried when Devon came home to comfort me. And now when I visit Alfie I still expect Dink to be a dark shadow in the cage, and it surprises me that he's not there. But I don't miss him, I'm not crying now. I've slipped into the haze of confusion that follows loss; it'll transition next for me into a haze of acceptance, and that's it for me. It makes me feel a little coldhearted, I think. My sister Allie still mourns pets we lost ten years ago, and I admire that, the visibility and vastness of her love. I did love Dink—I loved that little furry eggplant quite dearly. I'm sorry that he's gone. But I won't really miss him. It's not how I work.

And so I move on.
juushika: Drawing of a sleeping orange cat. (I should have been born a cat)
In memory of Dink
In memory of Dink

My guinea pig Dink (Sir George Leonard Dinkerton, born July 2005) died today. He was starting to show signs of weight loss and gunky eyes; I don't know if an emergency vet visit would have saved him, and honestly I'm trying not to think about it too much right now. When I found him he was by all appearances asleep. I hope his passing was as painless as possible.

I'm grieving, but I'll be okay. Devon and his family have been there to hold me. Dink's cagemate Alfie was with him while he passed (probably during the night) and for some time afterward. Kuzco had a brief chance to say goodbye. I will probably rearranged cages within the next few days so that Alfie and Kuzco can share a divided enclosure—they've never gotten along and probably can't live together, but seeing each other through bars will do something to make each less lonely. They both look healthy and well, and yes I am keeping an eye on them. Woof, who loves the pigs to death, was the most distraught—when we placed Dink in a box (we'll bury him later tonight) she was desperate to have us take him back out.

Condolences are welcome. He was an incredible pig—smart, social, and handsome, and very dear to me. I haven't always been the best mother to him, but I've been spending a lot of time with the pigs lately and I am incredibly thankful for that. I was not there with him when he died, but he fell asleep in my lap not two days ago and so I still have fond and happy last memories of my beautiful, sweet baby boy. And so if you do just one thing after reading this, I ask the same of you: go cuddle some creature that you love.

And on that note, I'll be spending my afternoon with Alfie and with Kuzco.
juushika: Photograph of the torso and legs of a female-bodied figure with a teddy bear. (Bear)
To even out Kuzco's outside time and pictures from the other day, I come bearing some more picspam of Dink and Alfie with a side helping of Dude.

Dink outside

+1 Alfie, +1 Dude )

Dink: This photo quite mimics the previous shot of Kuzco, which at least illustrates how different they are. Kuzco's awareness of humans stems from fear; the more comfortable he is, the more peacefully oblivious he is to his surroundings. Also he's as cute as a button. Dink meanwhile is more of the handsome sort, and his awareness of humans is based in intelligence and companionship. He'll never take his eyes off of you, but he's not frightened either—he's just waiting for you to do something interesting.

Alfie: Alfred's default expressions are terror (quite often—he's a skittish little bugger), spaciness (he lives in his own little world, and often acts as if he can hear and see things which, for whatever reason, the rest of us can't perceive), and this—the stink eye. Hes not a hateful creature, indeed he's not quite bright enough to hold much of a grudge, but from somewhere deep within his crazy hair, red eyes, and innate distrust of humans comes a peevish "I see what you did there" view of the world.

Dude: I realize that most of the pictures that I post of Dude are of him sleeping, but what can I say? He sleeps an awful lot, and he's quite adorable when he does so. (Pictures of him grooming always come out fuzzy; if I didn't post pics of sleeping or grooming, I'd have nearly no pics to post at all.) Dude is often so like a dog that it's surreal. He follows me around the house, he begs for my food; when I go outside he waits at the door for me to come back in. He camps out in my room and sleeps the day away. He's my buddy, and I love him for it.
juushika: Drawing of a sleeping orange cat. (I should have been born a cat)
I haven't done one of these in a while, so: I come bearing pigspam!

Crossposted to [livejournal.com profile] guinea_pigs.

One pictures, of Kuzco in the travel cage, peeking out from behind his blanket and into the sunlight. One video, of (mostly) Kuzco exploring his fresh, clean cage. When I'm cleaning the cage, Kuz goes in the travel cage and Dink & Alfie go on Kuzco's smaller side of the C&C cage. They can't interact from that far away, so it's rather lively when everyone goes back in the big cage. There are some adorable shots of Kuzco popcorning for joy, and also some shots of how they all interact through the bars of the cage: Kuzco teases Alfie, Alfie is a jerk, but they can't fight.

The second video is an amusing recent phenomenon, exhibited by Alfie: all three of the boys have a certain spot, just on top of their bums, that makes them spaz out if you scratch it. It's not unlike a dog's scratch reflex, but guinea pigs groom by scratching, licking their paws and rubbing it against their faces, and bending around to nibble at offending body parts—so when you find their scratch spot, their particular brand of crazy reaction involves nibbling, paw grooming, and squirming attempts to reach their faces around to their backs. It's funny to watch.

Onward, then, to the cuteness.

Kuzco peeking out
+2 videos. )
juushika: Drawing of a sleeping orange cat. (I should have been born a cat)
The house I am currently living at is Devon's grandparent's old place. They built a new house on the lot behind this one, and moved there; when they did, Devon's family set out to move into this old house. Devon has but his parents are some ways off from that, so for now I live here. Devon's grandparents, meanwhile, are our next door neighbors, and you can go from our backyard into their driveway—and the boys do, often, to visit.

Devon's grandparents have two dogs: a year old Golden Retriever named Joy and a Toy Poodle named Itty—as in Itty Bitty, because of her size. The other day, I was out cutting grass for the pigs, came in through the back door, shut it behind me, and then saw a white fuzzy small thing run by. Itty had been let out to go potty, seen me, and come over. I let her in, and she got to see this house again for the first time since she moved out—as see the pigs in their cage. Tonight, Devon was over there doing laundry and let her out, and then found her in our backyard again. We let Itty in to visit, and this time I took pictures. She got to run around, investigate, get plenty of love and attention (since she never has enough), and I let her meet the pigs in person for a bit. She does need to be supervised with them, because she's not quite sure if they are or are not toys (she tried to bat at Alfie, and then tried to clean him), but she's gentle and inquisitive, and thinks they smell fascinating. She's a lovely dog, tiny and adorable, very people-centered, quite intelligent, and I adore her.

So, everyone, meet Itty!


+4 of Itty, Itty & me, Itty & pigs, and a bonus shot of sleeping guineas. )
juushika: Photograph of a row of books on a library shelf. (Books Once More)
I've said before that the pigs eat as if this meal is the only meal and the last meal in this wide universe, but why talk about pigs eating when pigtures would be so much more effective? Granted, it's not the same as seeing a pig scarf down a leaf of romaine lettuce which is longer and wider and he is, but still. I bring pictures of Dink speed eating (shutter speed was 1/8th sec.), Alfie guarding his lettuce (sometimes he uses those bright red eyes of his for a very good end), and for fun, as shot of Dink&Alfie prim and proper, just out of the bath.

Strange how much picspam there's been lately. I just keep finding new things that seem worth a photo, in my ever-biased opinion. (I'm still collecting pictures of my hair to do a proper length update.)


+3 )

Yay, my mood icons are back up! Likewise my website, but it's so out of date as to not matter anymore.
juushika: Photograph of the torso and legs of a female-bodied figure with a teddy bear. (Bear)
It's recently occurred to me—from taking the boys outside—that Dink and Kuzco are satin pigs: they have smooth, shiny fur. Alfie's not: his fur is matte, no matter how bright the sun or the camera flash is. So to be more specific, Dink is a American smoothcoat chocolate satin agouti, Kuzco is a mixbreed Abyssinian banded honey and brown satin agouti, and Alfie is a pink-eyed white American, Peruvian, and Texel cross.

One day I even sat down and did approximate gene mapping for the boys. Yes, it is an obsession.

Somewhat more interesting: if it's too cold to go outside, or if I don't want to spend an hour sitting on the grass, I bring grass inside instead of bringing guinea pigs outside. An ordinary kitchen knife (especially the ones with small serrations on one side) makes a great grass-cutter, by the way. The pigs can eat enormous amounts, and they do so with the anxious concentration of someone who hasn't seen food in weeks and may never see it again, even though—and I swear this is true—they get fed multiple times every single day. Fortunately, their avid love of food is adorable. Photographic and video proof:



Alfie's piggy lips, and a video of all three boys stuffing their faces. )

Unfortunately, the last third (with Kuzco) compressed really dark, because he's furtherest from any of the light sources. But you get the idea.
juushika: Screen capture of the Farplane from Final Fantasy X: a surreal landscape of waterfalls and flowers. (Anime/Game)
On and off, I have dreams about the guinea pigs multiplying. Actually, I have all sorts of guinea pig dreams quite often, but multiplication is a pretty common theme. In the one I can most vividly remember, the guinea pigs got loose and I had to chase after them—there were about five, not just my set of three. When I grabbed some of them, they would slip right out of my grip like those toys from the 90s did, slipping faster, even squirting away, when you panicked and tried to hold them firmer. But when I grabbed Kuzco (I think it was Kuz ... might have been Alfie) he shrunk when I squeezed him, shrunk and shrunk down to nothing—and then from the gaps between my fingers, a bunch of tiny little miniature guinea pigs slipped out and started running around, no bigger than the size of my thumb. I kept trying to catch the pigs, and they kept escaping and multiplying. There was no forward movement or story—just a lot of scurrying, grabbing, and ever more and more pigs.

Keeping that in mind:

Today I was cleaning the pig cage. First, I moved Kuzco to the small temporary/travel cage, then I emptied his half, then I gave it a temporary liner and moved Dink and Alfie over to that side. I do this every time I clean. So with everyone set up, I was halfway through cleaning D&A's larger half of the cage, shaking off poos and hay, making piles of towels ready for the wash and towels that needed to get a good shaking outside, and all of the sudden a guinea pig comes wandering around the pigloo to stand right in front of me.

I swear to god I thought I had gone crazy for a second, and that the pigs were multiplying, because one was in the travel cage and two were on the other side of a metal divider, and yet there was a piggy, standing right in front of me.

It turned out that in tugging out the towels, I had twisted the divider and opened up a small gab between divider and cage side—a gap for my too-curious Dinkster to squeeze through. He looked at me like I was crazy when I jumped away as if for once he had scared me. So there was a otally normal, boring explanation. But that half second of staring at a magically appearing unexpected pig on the wrong half of the cage was one of the most surreal moments of my life.

That is all.
juushika: Drawing of a sleeping orange cat. (I should have been born a cat)
I come bearing videos of myself and my pigs. Having finally found my proper flash card and the card reader (which were hiding in about as close to plain sight as they could have been without dangling from the ceiling to hover over my keyboard), I figured I should make up for the fact that I've gone so long without a proper picspam. You were deprived, I know.

Therefore: Videos of me with Dink and Alfie, me with Kuzco, and me with ... my hair. )

Enjoy!
juushika: Drawing of a sleeping orange cat. (Default)
I've been putting of saying this, but it really is no secret: I introduced Kuzco to Dink on Monday, and they are now happily living together.

Why did I do it? )

Introductions went spectacularly—they were both very excited. There was some icky humping (more and more icky than I expected) but after that, Dink calmed down and Baby started to behave like a normal pig, eating and drinking happily. A few days later, the humping has stopped and everyone is living peacefully. Baby Kuzco follows Dink around almost obsessively, and Dink panics when I take the baby away, but the newness of it is fading and they're growing into a calmer, less obsessed relationship—which also means that Dink is paying attention to me, again. I missed my boy's kisses. Everyone is also fed, housed, and safe—there's plenty of hay, water, and pellets to go around, more than enough room for two boys, and I can keep the runaround open because, although Kuz could fit through the cube sides if he wanted to, he doesn't know he can—after all, Dink can't, so they both stay inside.

I have no doubt that I chose well. Kuz is more outgoing, now, and not as terrified, but he's still second in the guinea pig pecking order and has no problem with that. Dink is a rumble strutting, patient, forgiving dominant pig with no fear and general love for his little caterpillar shadow. The boys even look good together: Kuz's back end has Dink's coloring, his front end is the same as Dink's underbelly, and they both have white spots—Dink on his head, Kuzco on his front left foot.

Now, pictures!


+5 )

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juushika

September 2017

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