One summer, my middle sister
was entrusted with the care of two pets belonging to her then best friend. One of them was a scared little guinea pig. She was white and ginger with a tuft of sticky-up hair at the top of her head. My sister wasn't very interested in her, she preferred caring for the cat who was the other pet. Unfortunately said cat developed a hobby of jumping onto the guinea pig's cage and terrorising her so we brought her into our house. At first she was mistrustful of everyone. No one particularly cared. Then one day I was called downstairs and asked to hold her for a while while the rest of the family cleaned out her cage. For some reason she settled down in my arms and from that moment we bonded. She was my Pigusia. We used to lie down together on the sofa and watch TV, she in her favourite place - stretched along the space in between my arm and breast. Sometimes she'd nap along my neck, with my chin resting on her soft fur. I loved her, I truly did. She felt completely safe with me. When we went out into the garden together, she'd rest in the space I provided for her with my legs, shading her from the sun with my body. Each night when I put her back in her cage to sleep, she'd stretch her little face and make noises to be let out and in my arms again. I loved seeing her little tongue stretch out when she yawned or licked my hand with it. I loved the little cleaning routine she had. She was with us for only a couple of weeks, then her owners returned. A few months later she died. I will never forget her.