I suppose I should first deal with Guineas as companions, that being the capacity in which they were originally introduced to me, as well as their recognized duty. The dog has generally been reckoned man's best friend, but the problem with best friends is the grief they entail - all best friends, especially dogs, tend to make a great splash when they succumb; guinea pigs, on the other hand, have no such emotional potential. When they die, they are easily replaced, and their corpses disposed of in the back-yard. This is not to say that guineas do not bond - the fact is, they do, generally to the hand that feeds them. What I am getting at is that these relationships are not unilateral. The little fellow may lavish his love on you, but the only required evidence of a corresponding sentiment is a little food and water, and occasionally some fresh chips.
A man who is alone tends to go insane. Guinea pigs are an eminently practical race, and can keep the loneliest fellow from the edge. It is generally considered that Van Gogh, if he had shared his home with a guinea, would never have had that bright idea about the bridge. Their presence, munching pellets in the corner, or snoring in blissful repose, prevent one from ever feeling alone. At night, this can be a negative consideration, since guineas, classified as nocturnal but actually bi-urnal, bend their ways for neither time nor tide, and continue to munch and snore into the smallest hours of the night.
On this matter of the Cavy at night it would not be amiss to spare a few words. The night is the only time these creature lose their celestial worth. The incessant noise of a guinea in ones room gives rise to two problems. First, if one is at all given to contemplation of the nightly noises - if ghostly images spring to your mind each time the stair creaks, and every bump in the dark sends you cowering - then sleeping in the near vicinity to a guinea, may very well be a terrifying experience. On the other hand, and secondly, at any time when someone has become accustomed to these nocturnal manifestations of diablerie, he is highly susceptible to burglary, since he will reckon even the curses of the burglar upon smashing his finger in the safe another trick in his guinea's bag.
Ever since I saw a rather ill-conceived wood-cut of Socrates in his barrel, ignoring mortal pains to pursue immortal truth, I have considered it a symbol of the ideal philosopher. Imagine my surprise, then, upon observing a Guinea pig reclined in the same fashion in an oat-meal box. Perhaps it is only a testament to the ineptitude of the artist who made the wood-cut, but I have never seen such a close resemblance to it before. My further experience with the animals has not contradicted my initial opinion; and now, being familiar with the species, I can affirm that there are no greater seekers after wisdom. It is a known fact, that guineas do little beside sit and think, staring at the sides of their cages which are covered with the marks of their own snuffly noses. For a Guinea Pig to be idle is wholly acceptable, even expected; better yet, the guinea never worries about people taking it upon themselves to feed him Hemlock, but stares out upon the world in the unsurmountable security of his position - the world's most useless animal. I can only wonder what gems of philosophy my own animal, who is particularly given to lethargic contemplation, has hewn out of pure thought.
Morally, the Guinea is not much to speak of. He is quite apt to bite the hand that feeds him, if it smells remotely of such succulent vegetables as excite impure passions in his heart; and at times, when upset by some unexpected twist of fate, such as being awakened too suddenly, I am sure I've heard profane squeals of perturbation.
I know I haven't done justice to a sterling race, but until some abler hand takes up the task, this small tribute must suffice. To those guineas I have known, but shall see no more R. I. P.; and to those guineas with whom I am presently acquainted, may they prosper.
©Copyright, 2004, Robert Quiller