It took months of begging, pleading, bribing, and promises to convince my parents to get me my first guinea pig. We lived on a 38-acre farm with dogs, cats, and chickens, but I yearned for a pet of my very own, a pet who would entertain me and understand me, a pet who would impress my friends and make me popular at school. A guinea pig seemed like the obvious choice. When my mom finally drove my brother and I to the pet store a couple towns over, I chose a white-haired girl and named her Snowflake. My brother chose a black-haired boy. He named him Blackie.
When we got home, we carefully placed our pets in their new cage and they started squeaking excitedly. Suddenly my dad appeared in the doorway, eyes locked on the two fur balls. “Look, Dad!” we said. “This is Snowflake, and this is…”
“Guinea pigs,” he muttered. “I hate guinea pigs.” And then, like a bad omen in a horror movie, he disappeared.