Go ahead and Google it!

In case you ever have a serious need to discover the exact number of Google results for the term "exploding guinea pig" don't bother searching: I got your number right here. It's 55,800. That's about 53,000 more than I would have estimated, but, let's face it, there are a lot of sickos out there.

Count me one of the sickos, because I'm about to push the number up to 55,801.

This is the story of our own exploding guinea pig.

If you are a card-carrying member of PETA, or just really serious about the sanctity of animal life (even those things that I'm sure even Linnaeus wouldn't have considered animals--sea cucumbers come to mind) fear not: the guinea pig in question never breathed a breath of air, never gave one of those endearing little guinea pig "squeaks", never chewed up a $80 textbook in a burst of sheer joie de vivre like some mice I once kept for a science experiment. (I got my revenge. And the high school boa constrictor got lunch. I was cheap and vengeful even then.) No, the guinea pig whose guts now waft over my back porch was a toy.

You see, my kids go to Swedish school. (I believe I've mentioned that before--maybe you've seen the photos or watched the embarrassing footage.) So, there are many occasions when they take part in activities at the local IKEA. I love those occasions, because it gives me a chance to wonder what my life would be like were I to move across the Atlantic and have carte blanche to outfit an abode. (I love my home, but one does get to "if-ing" occasionally.) I ponder deeply the psychological implications of my fondness for certain lamps over others, and wonder if the over-the-sink-strainer would really change my existential outlook on life as it seems to suggest. And then I usually buy a couple of inexpensive sheets. I'm cheap, and I'm a mom.

My children also enjoy these occasions, but not for the same reasons. They love them, because IKEA--being a very progressive company--rewards its Swedish School helpers well. And thus it was that this year, after the Lucia procession and singing (sorry--no embarrassing photos this time, but whoo-hoo, did el Roberto look fab in that white dress!) the children were given very large IKEA bags (which I have appropriated. The grocery baggers' eyes always fall out of the sockets when I whip those babies out. Current record: three gallons of milk, five pounds of rice, and a half ham. Thanks, IKEA!) and cuddly stuffed guinea pigs. One for each child. (Even the one whose sole contribution was to grin and sweetly drool.)

And now for the exploding part.

The other night--being the night before Valentine's Day--my husband and I hired a babysitter so we could do something REALLY romantic: return to the used book sale at the state fairgrounds, and then go to buy a wedding present before grocery shopping. Try not to be jealous. Especially about the part where the book sale mostly smelled like llama pee. Well, at some point in the proceedings/general chaos that prevails around here, the dog found the absolute love of her life: one of the guinea pigs. It was apparently a tender tale of dog meets pig, dog licks pig, dog gnaws hole in pig's neck. Ah. L'Amour. And then. my children being the most helpful brood in the world (most of the time. When I threaten to yank all privileges, including indoor plumbing) tossed the sadly disappointed and unsatisfied guinea pig in the washing machine, where it reposed--probably thinking deep thoughts about love and the inevitable decay of mortality--until I dumped in a ton of laundry and started the washer up.

Poor pig never had a chance. Death by centrifugal motion. Sounds like a physicist's secret suicide fantasy.

And I didn't know until when, in the act of hanging out the laundry (16 days without a dryer, and counting!), I started shaking out piles and piles of pure white fluff.

I am a decent woman. I hung the emptied corpse up to dry. And since I'm both cheap and a believer in the afterlife, I fully intend to make the poor thing into a hand puppet. As soon as I can wrestle it away from the dog.