Cast and Crew: Gentlemen of an Oinky Disposition

How many roads must a guinea pig walk down before you can call it a farm animal? 

Let me make one thing clear: I don’t eat guinea pigs. Eating a rodent is a little beyond the extent of even my relatively non-selective palate. I don’t judge the folks that enjoy cuy, it’s just a case of to-each-their-own.

This being the case, here is a common question I get from friends and family who know my quasi-obsession with having a job for every resident of Douchebaggery Ranch:

“Why in the name of all creation do you keep guinea pigs??”

Souffle behind his house, with his former buddy hiding indoors after a particularly hearty bickering.

Allow me to explain in a list, because I like making lists.

1) Guinea pigs are essentially instant composters. You feed fruit and vegetable scraps in one end, and get fertilizer out the other end. No waiting for weeks for organic matter to break down, or for the worms to slowly eat their way through your garbage. You can pretty much watch it happen- it’s like magic.

2) Guinea pig manure, like rabbit manure, doesn’t require aging. It can go directly into the garden. Better yet, used guinea pig bedding (which in our case is a bit of wood shavings covered with a lot of hay) makes fantastic mulch, with the fertilizer already worked in. You don’t have to pick through it, dilute it, or process it in any way. The bottom of the cage is upturned onto a suitable patch of earth, and that’s that.

3) Guinea pigs cost practically nothing to keep. Hay is dirt cheap when bought by the bale, and makes up most of their diet. Vegetable and fruit scraps are exactly that- scraps. Wood shavings are also dirt cheap if bought by the horse-sized block, and you don’t need much anyway. (They are too rough a substrate for the guinea pigs’ feet, hence why I cover the shavings with tons of hay. This provides food, bedding and entertainment all at once.) Pellets are no longer considered an essential part of a guinea pig’s diet by most veterinarians, though I still give them a little bit as a treat. Like a tablespoon per day per pig. This, likewise, won’t break the bank.

4) Guinea pigs are wonderfully entertaining. They greet you with oinks when you enter the premises (mostly as a demand for food). They do the “hay dance” every time you give them a wad of fresh hay, rumbling and circling around the hay in unison. They chitter, purr, wiggle their butts (this is called “rumble-strutting” in guinea pig circles) in a hilarious way, and bicker like old couples. When they play, they popcorn (this is a motion that looks exactly the way it sounds). They have politics, for Heaven’s sake. You can watch the drama unfold every time there is the slightest suspicion as to who may be dominant over whom. It’s better than a soap opera.

5) Guinea pigs are snuggly. They will actually sit on your lap and make contented guinea pig sounds for a good twenty minutes before they pee on you.

6) The domestic cavy is a cheap and natural anti-depressant. It is the third-most ridiculous looking creature on Earth, ranking shortly behind the blue-footed boobie and the ezo momonga. (If you don’t know what I’m talking about, please pray to St.Google, the patron saint of the lazy and the ignorant.) You can’t stare one in the face and not laugh.

Pecorino, the guinea sheep.

Current guinea pig population of Douchebaggery Ranch consists of Souffle, Mr.T and Pecorino. Souffle is the longest-standing member of DR, predating even the dogs and the cats. He is pushing 7, which is ancient by guinea pig standards. Mr.T is named as such due to his mohawk, which is magnificent enough to make it worthwhile to break the tradition of naming household pets after food. Pecorino is the latest addition to DR and the only purebred cavy (and also one of the few non-second-hand animals on the premises), being a Texel- he is a curly pig, and resembles a sheep crossed with a toilet brush.

Mr.T reminding Pecorino who’s da boss.

The three gentlemen live together, though Souffle currently has his own “apartment” partitioned off- Mr.T likes to bully the old fellow, which I presume is karma, given the years of testosterone-driven harassment Souffle has provided for his previous buddy. Eventually, I might try to re-integrate him with the other two, if this can be accomplished without nipped ears and bloody noses. (Soap opera, I’m telling you.)

Why do I have guinea pigs? Because life would be a lot less colorful without them, that’s why. (Besides, I don’t have a TV and you can’t watch chickens in the winter.)

   

Advertisements

Cast and Crew: Independent Tailwaggers Association

Farm dogs are what you make of them.

The classic picture of the farm dog is the big shaggy mutt that trots around without a collar, generally as a guardian of livestock, property or people. Occasionally the stereotype is replaced by a purebred livestock guardian dog (LGD) whose breed is impossible to pronounce let alone spell- these are often giant, aloof and intelligent animals who wish to have everything to do with sheep and little to do with humans.

At Douchebaggery Ranch, you find neither the easy-going mutt nor the duty-driven LGD. The canine residents of the homestead are Oscar Mayer Wiener and Bonibon, working dogs in their own right. I don’t like to call them “rescues”, as I have not removed them personally from some awful situation. They are, however, both second-hand, like most everything here at DR.

Oscar is a Cairn Terrier that I found in the local SPCA’s proverbial bargain bin. He came with allergies, and stank to high heaven with a yeast infection when I brought him home, despite weeks of treatment at the shelter. He is still an avid nail-biter thanks to chronically itchy feet, but has cleaned up nicely aside from that. Oscar is total chicken shit when it comes to noises like fireworks, thunder, the clothes dryer (I ended up having to rig up an indoor clothesline for fear of giving the poor bugger a heart attack every time I do laundry) and the crowing of the cock quail (who, much to Oscar’s dismay, has to live indoors with his harem during winter months). This year, Oscar spent New Year’s Eve drugged out of his wits, compliments of my neighbors at the adjacent trailer park where the fireworks began at 4pm. He is also known as the Piddlestick due to his habit of pissing in the house when he’s scared- or when it’s too cold or wet for him to want to go outside. Aside from his various working positions at the farm, Oscar’s official title is the Best Thing In the World. That’s because he is.

Oscar and Bonibon getting ready for work.
Bonibon came from a family that didn’t want her any more- it’s a long and stupid story that I won’t get into, because all it would accomplish is to get me mad all over again. She is the archetype of a fufu dog, and I place her pedigree somewhere around a toy poodle crossed with a dish rag. She is elderly, has cataracts in one eye, and is in general a pathetic excuse for a dog. She is also absolutely adorable.

The Fufu being a fufu.
The Fufu and the Piddlestick are full-time bedwarmers. They crawl under the covers with me every night and serve as four-legged hot water bottles. They work night shift year round, with no weekends, holidays or sick days. It’s a hard life, but someone’s gotta do it.

All jokes aside, the dogs probably save me a lot of money in the winter, since I no longer need to heat the house at night. In other words, like everyone else at DR, they Earn Their Keep. They also work part-time as doorbells, and Oscar has the additional job of janitorial services. He waits patiently beside me any time I’m cooking or eating, and dutifully vacuums up any food particles that fall on the floor.

Some day, if Douchebaggery Ranch ever moves to a larger piece of land or a more remote spot where predators become a bigger concern, I might get a LGD (second-hand, of course). Until then, my principle is to not keep any dogs that are large enough for me to ride. (This, mind you, is not difficult, since I’m a tiny person.) Still, I insist that there is room for small dogs in the homesteading life. From the lost art of ratting to the indoor positions of personal space heater or intruder alarm, fuzzy little shits like Boni and Oscar can easily transition from their modern role of “canine babies” to real assets. Not that there’s anything wrong with canine babies, but I have the odd belief that animals who have a job feel more appreciated than simple companions. This is total hogwash, of course- all a dog needs to feel appreciated is a bowl of food, the occasional romp in the woods and belly rubs on demand.