The naughtiest guinea pig

This is the story of a very naughty guinea pig and her 19 hours of shenanigans.

Yesterday, I put the guinea pigs out on the grass in their individual boxes.  You know, as you do.

Virtually a suburban farm we’ve got here, what with the grazing animals out to pasture.  For my amusement, I arranged the boxes so that the guineas’ nibbling would create a checkerboard pattern.  See?   It kinda worked. 

And then when it’s time to go inside, one by one I just lift up a corner of a box, pick up the guinea around its midsection, and take it back home to their cage.  They’re used to this and are quite docile.

Except this time.  This time there was a very naughty guinea pig. 

Whiskers, the guinea who still squeals in terror when you pick her up and sits there with the whites of her eyes showing, expecting to be eaten at any moment.  Whiskers, with the sleek slippery coat.  Whiskers, who’s so nice and plump that my hand doesn’t actually fit around her midsection anymore.  When I reached in for Whiskers, she squealed, wiggled mightily, and then scampered away like lightning.  That Whiskers! 

I went after her and it was like some sort of slapstick routine as we chased around the back yard.  I thought I had her cornered in some bushes.  Then, she gave me the slip:  she dashed past my feet and zoomed under the deck.   This deck.  The one with the standing water at the lower end, due to all the rain we’ve gotten lately.

For a while she sat right at its outer edge, just behind the broccoli plants.  But she must have become annoyed with my efforts to reach in and snatch her, because she retired to the inner section and I lost sight of her.

I called to her in my nicest voice, but she wasn’t having it.  I brought out treats to tempt her.  Nope.  So, with a heavy sigh, I put on some old clothes and a headlamp.  Fine, I thought, I’ll go get her.

There is enough space at the lower end to crawl on hands and knees through the puddle and into the under-deck space.  The ground slopes up, however, while the deck of course stays level.  Soon I was army-crawling and then inch-worming my way through the mud.  Did you know that when this house was built, the construction crew tossed all of the little broken bits of cinderblock under the deck?  I didn’t know that either.  Now I do.  My ribs found every one of them.  I wormed in until I was sandwiched between the earth at my belly and the decking on my back.

Whiskers was sitting in the very furthest corner, the one under my bedroom window.  There’s about 4 inches of clearance between the ground and the decking there.  Because of the way the ground slopes, I couldn’t see her straight on; I had to lay my cheek against the soil, turn my head, and peer up.  I reached my bamboo pole in after her; it was a good three feet too short.  I pleaded with her to come out; she was doing no such thing.  She sniffed around and scratched and made little squeaks, seeming quite pleased with herself and this perfect little guinea pig home she’d found.  

After a while I realized I wasn’t going to win this round and reversed myself out.  It was about 9 pm by this point and I was soaked and shivering.   Figuring that she would be reasonably safe from cats there for the night unless she foolishly decided to go exploring around the backyard, I cleaned up and went to bed.

I went shopping first thing the next morning and then assembled my armamentarium.  That’s a live trap baited with apple up on the deck as a Plan B, and below from left to right we’ve got a scissors and duct tape for on-the-fly MacGuyvering, Arram’s nerf gun with 20 feet of string attached to the dart, two pool noodles on a stick, a butterfly net attached to the long bamboo pole, a broom with an extending handle, another butterfly net, and a leaf rake.   

I put the headlamp on again and prepared myself mentally for another descent.  Just then, it started to rain, because of course it did.

I found it somewhat easier to clamber under the deck this time, as I could scoot along the relatively concrete-free path I’d smoothed with my belly the night before.  There were fewer creepy-crawlies than I’d feared:  I didn’t see a single weta, and the one time I got startled and squealed like a guinea pig myself, it was a false alarm due to some fluff blowing past me.   There were only just some ants, really, and this one fascinating spider dangling, dead, from a vertical silk and fully encased in shimmering white mold.  For this attempt, I brought my phone along.  Not only could I take pictures, but I was texting Mel as I went.  Our whole exchange was comedy gold.

I was pleased to find that Whiskers had survived the night like a champ and was right where I’d left her. 

My long butterfly net reached her.  I wasn’t able to net her, but I did chase her out of the corner.  I blocked her way back with the pool noodles.  After several repetitions, I managed to confine her into a small space that was much closer to me.  However, there were still all manner of blocks and boards for her to hide behind, secure from nets and nerf guns, and I literally could go no further.  I climbed out again, defeated by a rodent. 

I was just fetching the shovel, intending to dig her out, when Mel arrived with a crowbar.  A little Kiwi ingenuity, and she had one of the boards up in a jiffy.  From there, we could see the silly little guinea, but couldn’t quite reach her.  But what’s gonna work?  Teamwork!

I went back under for a  third time while Mel waited at the hole.  I harassed Whiskers with sticks, moving her into position so that Mel could pounce on her from above.  Mel made some good grabs, but the guinea kept bolting away.  Once, Whiskers practically blundered right into me in her blind panic; if only I'd had a little better range of motion I’d have gotten her.  Finally, the humans prevailed and Mel yelled triumphantly, ‘I’ve got her!’

The deck was easy to put back together.  I, on the other hand, required a little more work. 

But all in all, this story has a happy ending: Whiskers the guinea is safe and sound and back with her sister and nieces, working out her newly-acquired PTSD issues in a quiet little shoe box nest.