Cat...
Junior Guinea Pig
Morrissey grew up in a cardboard box in our little flat, where everyone was borderline nocturnal and there were a variety of laps for him to potter about on. He played poker with us and buried his way into people’s hair. It wasn't the kind of environment anyone would recommend, but he was active, and interested in everything, and wordlessly sarcastic. He would fake-nap on your lap, then grab your skin between his teeth, pull as hard as he could and then purr. It was really painful, but impressively devious. He made me laugh a lot. We taught him ‘Morrissey Up’ – to jump onto his hidey-box – and ‘Morrissey Bear’ – to stand up, like a bear. The last one stuck.
After a year we moved, and built him a proper pen that took up half a room. He ran around like a demon. When we walked past, he would follow us as far as he could. I got him a lead, and he’d follow me around the garden. I’ve never known a guinea pig to like people so much. He stood on my feet to munch grass. He climbed up my leg when he wanted to go inside. He didn’t understand that the outdoors was okay to use as a bathroom.
Morrissey was born in Wales. When I was holding him and he wanted to go back, he’d tug on the Welsh dragon pendant on a chain around my neck. It was almost definitely coincidence, but there was a part of me that thought: he’s using Wales as a symbol for home. He could jump out of a bathtub from a standing start. He could follow instructions, like: “Go upstairs. No, not on your box, on to your first floor… Oh my gosh, did everyone see that? He understands sentences!”
When we took in Scooby from a friend, Morrissey was fascinated. He wasn’t used to other guinea pigs; he didn’t know about the rituals and the power struggle; he was heartbreakingly perplexed when Scooby lashed out at him. But Morrissey was obsessed with Scooby, and fretted every time we took Scooby from the pen. Once when Scoobs was trying to reach a dangling treat, Mozzy rolled their tunnel over and held it still for him to stand on. He was always trying to teach him things. When Scooby was ill, Morrissey never left his side. He was never quite the same after Scooby died.
When Morrissey first got ill, I took him to the vet, and he charmed everyone. They said: “He really likes cuddles, doesn’t he?” I’d never thought of him as cuddly before; more as a lovable force of evil. When I was negotiating the card machine, he leapt out of his box on the reception desk onto my shoulder and sat there, all casual, while the reception staff exclaimed about his awesome jumping/landing skills, and then he rubbed against my face and purred, which I think was because he knew that doing that would instantly bring me out in an itchy rash all down my cheek. Evil genius.
Morrissey died on the 11th May 2015. Suddenly he couldn’t stand up anymore, and I knew it was a matter of hours. I held him upright on the lawn, and with some help, he ran. It was a nice day: warm but not too hot, a little bit breezy. Then I sat inside with him on my lap, and I told him how much I would always, always love him. He died in my arms; he just stopped breathing. I know that one day I’ll be so grateful for the time we spent together that afternoon, although right now, I just want him back. Morrissey died of a disease brought in by a new guinea pig. He was four years old, almost to the day.
Morrissey was my best friend. He was my sidekick, or maybe I was his. I honestly thought he was invincible. He was such a huge part of my life. I miss him unbelievably. But I’m so, so grateful that I knew him.
After a year we moved, and built him a proper pen that took up half a room. He ran around like a demon. When we walked past, he would follow us as far as he could. I got him a lead, and he’d follow me around the garden. I’ve never known a guinea pig to like people so much. He stood on my feet to munch grass. He climbed up my leg when he wanted to go inside. He didn’t understand that the outdoors was okay to use as a bathroom.
Morrissey was born in Wales. When I was holding him and he wanted to go back, he’d tug on the Welsh dragon pendant on a chain around my neck. It was almost definitely coincidence, but there was a part of me that thought: he’s using Wales as a symbol for home. He could jump out of a bathtub from a standing start. He could follow instructions, like: “Go upstairs. No, not on your box, on to your first floor… Oh my gosh, did everyone see that? He understands sentences!”
When we took in Scooby from a friend, Morrissey was fascinated. He wasn’t used to other guinea pigs; he didn’t know about the rituals and the power struggle; he was heartbreakingly perplexed when Scooby lashed out at him. But Morrissey was obsessed with Scooby, and fretted every time we took Scooby from the pen. Once when Scoobs was trying to reach a dangling treat, Mozzy rolled their tunnel over and held it still for him to stand on. He was always trying to teach him things. When Scooby was ill, Morrissey never left his side. He was never quite the same after Scooby died.
When Morrissey first got ill, I took him to the vet, and he charmed everyone. They said: “He really likes cuddles, doesn’t he?” I’d never thought of him as cuddly before; more as a lovable force of evil. When I was negotiating the card machine, he leapt out of his box on the reception desk onto my shoulder and sat there, all casual, while the reception staff exclaimed about his awesome jumping/landing skills, and then he rubbed against my face and purred, which I think was because he knew that doing that would instantly bring me out in an itchy rash all down my cheek. Evil genius.
Morrissey died on the 11th May 2015. Suddenly he couldn’t stand up anymore, and I knew it was a matter of hours. I held him upright on the lawn, and with some help, he ran. It was a nice day: warm but not too hot, a little bit breezy. Then I sat inside with him on my lap, and I told him how much I would always, always love him. He died in my arms; he just stopped breathing. I know that one day I’ll be so grateful for the time we spent together that afternoon, although right now, I just want him back. Morrissey died of a disease brought in by a new guinea pig. He was four years old, almost to the day.
Morrissey was my best friend. He was my sidekick, or maybe I was his. I honestly thought he was invincible. He was such a huge part of my life. I miss him unbelievably. But I’m so, so grateful that I knew him.
. Xxxxx
