It was a dark and stormy night. The two boys were home alone. Mother was away… off in exotic lands with her foreign lover, leaving the young men behind to tend the livestock. The rain pelted eaves and windows, and violent winds blew over fencing, tore the roof off the pen protecting one diminutive auburn piglet. Seeing through the window the devastating destruction outside, the boys hatched a rescue plan. Then, donning a small battery-powered torch to light the way, the brave lads journeyed from the comfortable safety of their warm abode into the unforgiving elements, out to the “back forty” to ensure the little pig’s security. They carried with them a soft dry towel with which to swaddle little “Skippy,” as they called him. They’d intended to scoop her up and bring her indoors.
Making their way through a dark that refused to be penetrated by lamp or blazing match, the two scrambled wild-eyed and nervous. The wind howled. The rain beat upon their tender young heads, their curls now matted fastly to their scalps. The younger of the two, thoroughly spooked, waved the light here and there, but saw only ghostly white raindrops the size of monster claws. The older led the way, harshly reminding the frightened one, “Shine it this way! I can’t see a damned thing!”
They arrived at the pen and abruptly tore away what was left of the roof, but found nothing. No sign of poor Skippy. The youngest hurriedly urged his sibling to “Look under the plastic covering! She must be hiding!” He resumed the wild flailing of the torch, looking for predators that might enjoy feasting on boys. What a fraidy cat, his older brother thought ungenerously.
“Shine it over here!” shouted big brother. “What’s this? Wha-… gross, I think she’s dead!”
“What? No, she’s hiding,” said Fraidy Cat, aiming the light where the older had been pointing.
“Uh… nope, she’s dead, all right,” Big Brother said with a hint of sarcasm.
For the younger, more innocent of the two, unfortunate reality is either too readily accepted, or too slow to set in. He’s yet to find balance in that way.
Nonetheless, he crouched to shine a closer light at the spot and study the odd patch of mud on the grass, wondering to himself Is that hay? It made sense; Skippy often received Timothy Grass and golden hays as treats. She had, in fact, been relocated to the farthest boundaries of the property so she could feast on the overgrown grasses and dandelions so rich near the compost bin.
But eventually, the horrible reality dawned on him, which caused him to stand up, take a few steps back as he realized he was looking at the remains of a guinea pig massacre. Skippy had been someone’s dinner. And all young Fraidy could imagine next was, “I don’t want to be dessert.”
The two boys hauled ass back to the house, shut the windows and locked all the doors.
——-~~~——-
When I arrived home today from visiting Channy in Canada, the above story was, more or less, the explanation I got to justify the 11:15pm phone call I’d gotten the night before. When Jake called me on my cell, he’d woken me from a sound sleep. A dead sleep, so to speak. ”Uh, Mom… I’ve got some pretty bad news that’ll upset you.”
“What’s wrong? What’s happened? Where’s Cory?” I said, instantly panicked.
“Cory’s fine. He’s a little freaked out, but he’s right here. We’re both okay.”
“What happened?!” I said, needing an explanation sooner than he could get the words out.
“Well, I just thought I should probably let you know that the guinea pig is… um, dead.”
“Dead? The guinea pig? You… you called me in the middle of the night to tell me that?”
“Yeah, I think a raccoon got him.”
“Skippy is a female.”
“Yeah, well, her. She’s dead, anyway. It was a real mess. Bones and blood everywhere. We went out there in the rain to rescue her, but it was too late.”
“But you’re okay?”
“Well, it’s raining pretty hard.”
I was too tired to laugh at the poorly time and too pragmatic way in which Jake delivered this information.
On the other hand, I know that he gets this unflattering characteristic from his mother. When a crisis of any kind is on, we move into “reporter mode” and thus, cease to be emotional people. My sister can attest to this as she was on the other end of the line when I received news about my brother’s death. My reaction was… I can’t remember her exact words, but “chilling and unfeeling” would probably describe it. Just gimme the facts for now. Maybe Jake was as dismayed by my reaction was I was to the way in which he reported the news. Emotional pause: it’s a gift we have.
We’re not as cold as we sound. And anyway, it was just a guinea pig. Not the least bit friendly, either. Cute as hell, though. Cute as hell. She did like to be stroked on the head when you could corner her. A redhead and full of cow licks. Used to whistle and call when she’d hear me cutting up vegetables.
There… now Skippy has been memorialized in a story. Skippy-the-literary-martyr.
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