A year ago yesterday we lost our dear Rosie the guinea pig. She lived a fairly long life for a guinea pig, a good life, full of chin scratches and exploring sounds and peppers all colors of the rainbow. (The reds were her favorite. Mine too.) She developed a habit of chewing on the bars of her cage whenever we cut peppers for her and the only thing that would stop her—the only thing—would be to give her sample after sample. Cut-cut, chew-chew, cave-cave, repeat. Chewing and grinding, “More, I say!” It was never enough, and it was our fault that she came to resemble a perfect sphere in her adulthood. You try resisting.

[This is the truth: as I write this I’m listening to Volume 14 from annual playlist blather’s back catalog and my man Bob Pollard, halfway through “Break Even,” just sang “…steal my rosy red invention.” I shit you not.]

Switching to second person/piggy: I’m sorry it took so long to write about this difficult time in our lives—I’m no longer as sad as when we got home from the vet to be greeted by your empty cage. Mostly we think about you and laugh, wistful, shaking our heads. “Oh, Rosie.” We miss you and continue to love who you were—how your ears wiggled throughout every meal; how you stood on your hind legs to accept your morning carrot, then carried it into your house to enjoy in solitude; how you sprayed lettuce—sprayed! lettuce!—everywhere during lunch; and how the sound of the opening refrigerator caused you to hop right over your food bowl on the way to the corner where you could chew on those godforsaken bars.

You were as cute and delicious as it gets, chocolate and peanut butter with one hind leg dipped in vanilla. You were a wonderful sport, allowing G. and her friend to time your progress through an admittedly simple “maze” to see which foods attracted you the fastest. You were innovative, challenging your father to brainstorm a fairly elaborate three-point stabilizing mechanism in order to stymie your efforts to flip your house over with your snout. You were snuggly, allowing yourself to be tucked in with a hand towel while you watched Survivor from G’s lap. What I loved most about you, though, was your sense of humor. You were hilarious and your legacy lives on, somehow limited in text to 2017 but forever in our hearts:

Super Bowl LI: Now he has his revenge

Vol. 9 – Instead of Small-Minded Arrogant Fools

Training camp/the all-important third preseason game VIII

[Featuring bonus tracks in honor of darling pets Chloe and Steve, respectively.]

I wish I’d held you more often and didn’t worry so much about the inconvenience of washing my hands afterward, but I’m glad I’ll think of you every time I walk by Little Leaf Farms lettuce in the produce section. “She poops where she sleeps and enjoys baby carrots, peppers of any color and those flowery bits of hay. G. loves her to death and wants to snuggle her forever. I just want to eat her.” That’ll do. ❤️