juushika

Kuzco died at about 4a last night. He held steady for a while after his vet visit, but never put much weight back on and his teeth never regrew and wore properly; over the last little while his weight began to drop slowly and then sharply, and I began feeding him Critical Care again until he started rejecting even force feeding (he would just spit it back up). In his final days he also developed an upper respiratory infection. One by one we could have fought or treated these issues, but taken all together and considering his advanced age, this was his time. ( Details of his death. )

I've seen this coming for some time, and I'm glad I could be there at the end. I can't say how much it helped that I was there without idealizing or anthropomorphizing him, but at least he was warm and undisturbed; I was able to sing him the song I used to sing to comfort the guinea pigs, the same song I used to sing to myself during long nights of anxiety-induced insomnia, which at least helped me. I appreciate seeing the biology of death, it makes it more concrete; I've still not grieved, and no doubt I need to vent my emotions, but on the whole I'm fine even though this comes at the height of some menstrual body/mood issues. He was old and ailing at the end of a long and pretty good life and frankly I was relieved to see him pass in peace and relative swiftness; that's all I'd ask for.

Kuzco is the end of an era: he was my last surviving guinea pig, and I don't plan to have another or to have any small animal for some time. Between Odi and the multiplying cats, I'm surfeited with animals to love.

I was the primary caretaker of my elementary school guinea pig Chumley and I loved him to pieces, and that's why I wanted them as pets. They are everything and nothing that I remembered. I'm a strong advocate against pigs as pets for the casual pet owner (not that there should be any such thing), because they're not what people expect them to be: they're not social the way that people think of pets as social, they require lots of room and fair bit of upkeep, and maintaining for their health can be effortful. But they are also pretty well incomparable, because nothing else can scream for food like they do, or popcorn for a clean cage and then poop in it, or communicate with the mothership in birdlike chirps, or believe that purring while shaking one's rump makes one in any way threatening, or be a guinea pig better than a guinea pig.

Dee is helping with the disposal of his body and belongings (he'll be cremated, and I hope to donate his cage—he was in a travel one in his old age—and useful goods to the Oregon Humane Society), bless. Devon is providing emotional support even at five in the morning. Sympathies and thoughts are welcome, for Kuzco and for all the pigs: they were seven some years of my life, seeing me through literally the worst of it.

I leave you with these pictures of Kuzco at 3 weeks old.

Last weekend was fantastic and hugely busy. On Saturday, Dee and I made a day trip down to Corvallis. We brought Odi to board the day in grandparents's outdoor dog kennel, and went with Devon and my family (parents and sister) to the Fall Festival, an outdoor fair of local artists. I usually go just with my father, or sometimes with my sister as well; having such a large group was a bit like herding cats (oh, the yelled cell phone conversations), but it was also lovely. The weather held at mostly sunny but not hot, my parents bought some metal work for the garden, and I got to show off one of my favorite artists, Cameron Kaseberg. When we were done with the booths, we split up and Devon, Dee, and I went across the street to the library book sale, where everything was half price for the end of the day; I am absolutely drowning in books over here, but I still managed to find Dracula, some Atwood and Woolf, and a Southern Gothic novel of questionable potential for $6, and who can say no to that. Then we went out to a delightful dinner.

Back at Devon's grandparents's house we discovered that—true story—as soon as we'd left, Odi had managed to pull up the chain link sides to the kennel, wriggle underneath, and follow Devon's scent trail across the yard and back to Devon's house, where he had found Devon's father and invited himself inside and spent the day gorging on found bags of cat food and playing. We're exceedingly lucky that he wasn't hurt in the escape and that he immediately found a safe place to go (as a one-eyed dog he's pretty identifiable, so Devon's folks recognized him), but: WHUT.

On Sunday, Dee and I took the bus to Hawthorne—one of my old Portland stomping grounds out in SE—for the Under Wildwood release party. The Wildwood Chronicles take place in St. Johns (our neighborhood here in Portland) and the vast park visible from the neighborhood; at the release party we got a pre-release signed copy of the second book in the series, and the author and illustrator did a joint talk which was all about the book as a collaboration—their joint approach to creating its world, and then exploring it in their respective mediums as author and illustrator. Afterward, we went to an early dinner at Chez Machin—I'd never had savory crêpes, and they make theirs with chewy robust buckwheat; mine was filled with mozzarella, mushrooms, and tomatoes, and topped with a pesto sauce. I'm an extremely picky eater, mostly in regards to texture and new foods, so it was a bit of a risk but a complete success: A+, would love to eat again.

On one hand this is exactly what I want of autumn: more to do, more desire to do it, the delicious exhaustion and enthusiastic downtime that follows having done it. That said, we noticed this week that Kuzco has been having some troubles eating: he lost a top incisor a bit ago, which is totally normal, but I think he lost this one way down at the root and the root got infected. It's just broken through, so he's probably fine, but he's lost a bit of weight in the meantime and the infection may still linger. He has a vet appointment tomorrow just to make sure he's fine, but here's the thing: Kuz is 7 years old, and guinea pigs live between 5 and 8 years. He's developed a cataract in one eye; when he's eating well (which is usually) he gets rotund but the weight is all in his tummy—he's never been a very plump pig, but he's on the bonier side now. What I'm saying is that he's an old man, the last of his herd. This tooth issue is probably unrelated to aging, but it sort of makes his mortality hit home. I'm not dreading or even anticipating his death—Kuzco has had a good life, and he can stick around for as much more of it as fate determines—but this comes while we have a cat in limbo and while I just feel ... exhausted.

It's money issues (even if Devon doesn't seem to think there ... are any), it's fear of commitment and responsibility, it's general exhaustion and the need for some downtime. Two weeks ago I was exhausted and went to escape in Corvallis, and spent the whole time having an extended nervous breakdown. Then there was cat, then there was social stuff, now Kuzco, and I haven't showered in a couple of days and when I'm not surfeited with distraction (making stars while watching a show, reading a book while watching video games) I'm on the verge of a crying jag.

Gillian is fine! He managed to groom the section that he had groomed to the skin, so that's still healing, but most all of his scabs have flaked off and he's no longer vibrating with itchy frustration. No other health problems, he's on the second half of his preventative medication course, and really the only thing he hates is being trapped in one room. I'm just having a hard time bonding, because right now I don't see "cat I love"—I see "ongoing responsibility and monetary investment." That's selfish, and it doesn't mean I don't love him, but it's a connotation I can't shake right now.

If sleep were easier (not having nightmares, just sleeping restlessly), I'd want to sleep for a week. Devon wants me to come back to Corvallis for another try at downtime, but it depends on what Kuzco's vet visit turns up. I just wish there were an off button for the world, or for me.

I woke today to soft, pervasive, pale white light flooding the room, a cool breeze and the white noise of the city coming through the cracked windows, and a cat pressed against my ankle. I invited her up for snuggles and she fit herself into the crook of my arm and flopped over so that I could rub her belly. I read a few selections from the anthology I'm working through, then sat up to check my email. She's curled up behind me now, on the blanket I have wrapped around me, her back pressed to my back. That's where she prefers to be, if she can: just touching. She'll sit in my lap on occasion and she's taken to walking in front of my desktop's monitor (of course), and she goes crazy for deep-down, flopped-over, blissed-out snuggles, but the rest of the time she likes it if she can just be close, touching and warm but not a bother—she's probably just napping, after all.

So what I'm saying is that I'm happy.

Later today I'll post August's introduction and story proper. I'll post pictures, too. I can't tell you how easily and quickly she's adjusted—she's still growing and changing as she settles in, but she's been at home here from the very moment that she arrived. Her behavior is fantastic, her appetite likewise; she barely seemed to register the fireworks last night. She doesn't hide under the bed—she explores down there. She hasn't been wary or frightened. She just wants love. It's surreal and impossible, and I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for some last-minute freakout or, I don't know, expensive incurable disease. This literally seems too good to be true.

But we've established that for me, happiness always does, right? It's not an art I've mastered. I'm better, now, with it. I've had some practice in these last few years and months. I can see my guinea pig these days, easy as you'd like, and that means he's happier and healthier than he's been in years. I can cook, if I want—and I do, and it even turns out well! I can do a load of laundry without having a crisis, and this shouldn't be a big deal but it is. This home is mine, too; I'm comfortable here, and free, and happy.

She sleeps pressed against me, and hogs my best squishy pillow during the day, and yet I don't quite believe that August is here and she's mine and she's forever. But it's starting to sink in. These last few years and months I've been watching my own heart come together, piece by piece. And a cat, oh, a cat is a huge piece of my heart. I'm whole and living and alive again—and how the everloving fuck did that happen, guys?

But thank you, thank you, that it did.

(Oh hey look, it's more passive-affection! century_eyes is the reason all of this is possible, in so many ways, and I will never forget that.)

Kuzco has been doing little, grown-up-pig popcorns, lately. I have a lot of thoughts about this, but they're as much about the guilt I have about how distant I'd been from him back at the other house as they are about the experience of having him here, and this post isn't about that. It's about a spoiled, loved guinea pig who makes little twitches of happiness. It's a happy post. I'm so glad to have him here.

Yesterday evening, Devon came up with Kuzco and Alfie's body.

Kuzco is indeed 100% fine. He's in the dining room/kitchen area in the travel cage set up atop a table, which will work just fine until we figure out longterm arrangements. He didn't exactly love the drive, but he's already warmed up enough to stand against the side of the cage and sniff out, and he's active and has a big round tummy, and it's fantastic to see him there. Yesterday evening he took a nap in my arms while I watched Dee play Dragon Age: Origins. These things are good.

After we got Kuzco inside and set up, I saw Alfie. This is the part I always feel vaguely apologetic for, because we all cope with death differently and there's a certain awkwardness to a corpse. An embarrassment, really--they become all biology, stiff and floppy in just the wrong ways, and you want to apologize: this is not the guinea pig he used to be, and when I loved him he was alive, vibrant, fucking batshit crazy, curious, wary, he put everything in his mouth, he listened to voices no one else could hear. But that's the point, really. For me, that's the point. That awkward physical body tells me that, yes, he did die; that yes, his body is just a corpse, now.

All of my pigs—Chumley, Dink, Alfie—have died without me. With Chumley I was on vacation, with Dink I was asleep, with Alfie I was in another city. I don't understand death well, for reasons that I talked about after Dink died: I don't have a good concept of time, I don't miss what's absent or gone. I hadn't seen the pigs since I came up here, but I didn't miss them—I loved them, and cared for them, but didn't miss them. Death at a distance is unreal, because it's a change that changes nothing. I hadn't seen Alfie for a few weeks. Now I would never see Alfie again. That difference is huge, but with the way that my brain works it was meaningless.

When I unwrapped him (and Devon's father had wrapped him, so carefully, in packing paper before sealing him in a box) and saw that first little tuft of butt fur, it started to hit home that the change did mean something. And petting him, dead and cold and so soft, made it clear that there was a pig here, and now he's gone. I can see the difference, now.

There's a lot of sobbing emotion tied up in this too, and I know I'm not done processing things. I've been keeping myself busy, consuming games and books and films and making sure my thoughts are safely somewhere distant. I'm taking refuge in the coolness and distance when I can get it, and if that makes me sound uncaring—or more fascinated by my own reactions than sympathetic to his death—I'm sorry. This is how I cope.

That, and by giving Kuzco lettuce leaves and bits of carrot. I'm grieving and I'm numb, but I also have a pig, this beautiful living pig, and he's soft and warm, and curious and hungry, and the glory of his life outshines all the rest. Alfie never did much like Kuzco (oh, is that an understatement), but perhaps he won't begrudge me that his legacy is in my love for that other small, furry monster.

Haven't done one of these in a while, have I? I come bearing pigspam. With bonus cat! and dog! and video!


( 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.

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.


( +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.)

I come bearing cute pictures, the likes of which may never be seen again. No, really:


( Because on a whim, I put Alfie and Kuzco on a chair together: +2 pictures. )

Apologies for the shitty quality, but it's autumn in Oregon—we haven't a lot of natural light to go around. (And not only do I abhor flash above all things, trust me you do not want to see pictures of Alfie taken with it. He looks like a demon-pig.)

Alfie is definitely lonely without Dink—Mum compared it to losing a life partner and I think she's right. Alfie and Dink were rarely snuggle buddies but they were cage mates for years, and you can't get much more intimate than that. When Kuzco started living alone he grew a lot more human-oriented, coming to the cage bars for attention. Alfie, on the other hand, not so much. He's neurotic and distrusts humans entirely, so while he definitely desires contact he will never, ever ask for it. He has gotten better about out-of-cage snuggle time though, so that's something. Ideally he'd have a cage mate but I don't want to take on another pig, and Kuzco is a no go. So it's a split cage and begrudged snuggle time for him, poor boy.

On a related note, the boys are healthy and well. My headspace is much improved, as well—I think I am finally at terms with Dink's death.

My parents this weekend were out of town this weekend, seeing plays, so I housesat and dogsat. It was good timing to be with the dog, because Jamie recently had a few lumps removed, one of which biopsied as cancerous. This is not halfway as bad as it sounds—it's not unusual for dogs her age and breed, she's starting some preventative medication, all in all this is mostly a early warning and she's going to be fine. But we all dealt with cancer in our last dog, Cokie, and that was tough on all of us—so we're pretty shook up. I was really upset when I first found out, but a few days spent cuddling with James has done wonders to calm me. It's not good news, but it's bearable news, news we can act on. And right now Jamie couldn't care less. She things her pills are treats, her sutures are healing fine, and as a dog will, as Jamie does, she is loving every single day.

And when you live every day with all your heart then you can be happy ever after, even if it's only a short time.
—Virgina Lewis, The 10th Kingdom

But I suspect she has many years more to go.

And I took pictures! I suppose that's a perquisite for dog visits. I'll admit that I love this first in part because of all the color in the background. The second is purely sunlit—when sunbathing, she glows. There are also a few pictures of some of the other animals in my life.



( +1 Jamie, +2 Dude and Madison, +3 Kuzco and Woof )

The weather has turned hot—unpleasantly so sometimes, but the animals love it. The cats (Dude is black and white, Madison is the tabby) enjoy the sunbeams almost enough to share the same breathing space—not something they often do. The pigs have been feasting on fresh grass and enjoying occasional trips outside, as per these pics of Kuzco outside. Woof thinks that this last is epic awesome: she's part sheepdog, and thinks the pigs are puppies; when they're outside, she runs circles around their cage and watches them eat. She can get a little overeager (I think all of the pigs have had an overenthusiastic dogtongue explore unwelcome places by now), but for the most part she's an angel with them.

It is warm, the earth is glowing, and while I am a fan of autumn myself it is so far a lovely summer.

I haven't done one of these in a while, so: I come bearing pigspam!

Crossposted to 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.


( +2 videos. )