CHAPTER VIIRABBITS AND GUINEAPIGS
One of the first inhabitants of my aviary in Halifax was a spotted rabbit.
I had always been fond of rabbits. My parents had kept them for my brothers when we were children, and during my stay in California I had had a pet pair that I obtained one day in an absent-minded way.
I was going shopping in Berkeley, and my sister said, “We need a coffeepot. I wish you would bring one home.” When I returned she asked for the coffeepot, and I was obliged to confess that I had forgotten it, but I had bought a fine pair of rabbits instead.
These two became great pets, and used to play about the yard with my gentle dog, Nita, but I had to give them away when I left Berkeley. On reaching Halifax, I at once got this little spotted animal, and subsequently bought a pretty gray one to bear him company.
My poor spotted rabbit did not live long. One of our fox-terriers, Jim by name, a young, enthusiastic romp, played so hard with him that he injured him. I put the unfortunate little creature in a box where he lay turning from side to side for a day, and then, in spite of brandy and oil administered in small doses, he died.
I have never yet found that brandy helped a sick bird or animal. Warm milk and oil are now my stimulants—that is, for simple ailments. For complicated cases, I consult our family physician, who is most kind in prescribing for my pets.
The boy from whom I bought the spotted rabbit said that a sick rabbit is a dead rabbit. I disproved this later, but by the death of this spotted one I painfully added to my stock of knowledge, and I resolved that never again would I allow a rabbit to play with a puppy as rough as the lively Jim.
After the death of Spotty, Rab, the gray one, seemed lonely with only birds for companions, so I decided I would get her someguineapigsto play with, and accordingly ransacked the city for them.
I could find none, but one day two little girls came to our door and asked for me. “Would you—wouldyou,” they said in choked voices, “take our dear little guineapig? We know you want one, and we think ours would have a better home with you than with us.”
“My dear children,” I replied, “I could not think of taking your guineapig from you. Why, you are almost crying at the thought of parting from it.”
“Oh! we want you to have it,” they said, “but please don’t think we want to get rid of her. We just love her, but we know you will love her better, and it is our duty to do what is best for her, and not to think of our own pleasure.”
Charmed with these children, whose grandfather I found had been a Canadian naturalist, who had built aviaries and houses for birds and animals in his park, I said, “Well, you may bring Guinea to me, but only as a loan. I will give her back to you in the spring.”
The little girls thanked me heartily, and said, “Now she will not be lonely. We have to keep her in our basement when we are away at school, and sometimes we think she is cold.”
I told them that our basement contained plenty of hot-water pipes, and that I hoped the rabbit would be a good friend to their Piggy.
They went away, and some days later, when I was not at home, they arrived with the pig in a basket.
Lizzie doubtfully took the basket up to my mother, who was in bed.
“A peeg for Miss Marshall.”
My long-suffering mother, accustomed to a great variety of pets in times past, had never yet had a pig foisted upon her, though she had put up with a snake.
“A pig!” she exclaimed, “in that basket! It must be a young one. Put your hand in, Lizzie.”
Lizzie, though usually demure and obedient, flatly refused, whereupon my mother said, “Perhaps there is some mistake. If my daughter intended to have a pig, she would have got a larger one than this. Tell the little girls they may leave it, if they like, but perhaps it would be safer to call again with it.”
The little girls refused most decidedly to leave the pig, and when I came home I felt badly, knowing that they must have been disappointed.
The next day I hastened to their house, and their mother told me some interesting stories with regard to her children’s fondness for pets.
On one occasion they had taken this same little guineapig to the country, and had one afternoon gone four miles from home. Rather than spend the night away from their little pet, they walked back the four miles to get to her.
I waited until they arrived from school, and seeing me, they ran to get Piggy, who was a pretty, broken-colored, short-haired English pig that had been brought to them from the West Indies.
With some trepidation I saw this precious pig put into a basket and entrusted to my care. On arriving home I carried her to the aviary, where mysolitary rabbit was rambling alone, and put her on the ground.
Happy little Guinea—she had lived so long away from other animals that she fell into an ecstasy on seeing Rab, and with grunts and squeals of delight ran about the aviary just as fast as her short legs would carry her.
Rab stopped short, stared at the demonstrative stranger, then, to my mingled amusement and dismay, gave her a decided kick.
The unfortunate Guinea drew back. Such a hint was not to be misunderstood. However, she continued to follow and admire the unfeeling Rab at a distance, Rab, meanwhile, pretending neither to see her nor to hear her. I pitied Guinea so much that I began to ransack the city for other guineapigs.
One day a boy told me to go to Grafton Street, and in a house there I found a woman with a family of children.
I asked them whether they had guineapigs.
They said yes, they had some nice white prize pigs, and they would be glad to part from some of them, for the winter was coming on, and hungry rats had already devoured several of the little ones.
One of the boys ran out and brought in three little pigs, very unlike my dark Guinea, for these were white, with long hair all blown the wrong way, as if they had been out in a gale of wind. “Abyssinian,” I believe is the name of this kind of pig. The Peruvians have still longer hair.
It seems that guineapigs have nothing to do with Guinea, and are not pigs at all. They are derived from the wild cavy, and were domesticated by the Mexicans of Peru. The Dutch introduced them into Europe during the sixteenth century, where they became great pets with children on account of their gentleness and pretty ways.
My mother, upon my arriving home with three more pigs, was astonished but resigned, and soon they became her special pets. I had now four, and my Guinea was in pig raptures that sent all the family into fits of laughter. Like a train of little cars, they ran along the path and up the bank, and over the bank, and down again on the earth floor of the aviary. Their little bodies were elongated, their feet were barely visible, and at frequent intervals they raised their heads, and uttered queer, piercing squeals of delight. Sometimes they made a curious continued sound like the running of a sewing-machine. The squeals came in moments of excitement, particularly when it was mealtime.
They liked bread and milk, hay, oats, and corn, and all kinds of vegetables. They also drank water. My rabbits too have liked water, and my experience with animals and birds has taught me always to keep fresh water before them. If they don’t like it, they won’t drink it.
I have heard some persons say that guineapigs are stupid. I never found mine stupid. I never saw an animal suffer more from homesickness thanone of these Abyssinian guineapigs called Tiny. Later on, I had more rabbits, and one day I took Tiny from the aviary and put her in the furnace-room to bear company to a sick rabbit. This little white rabbit affectionately licked his guineapig friend, but Tiny was so ill, and so frightened with him, that I took compassion on her, and put her back with her companions.
She was so supremely happy to get back, and so excited that she could not eat, and when a guineapig or any other kind of a pig cannot eat, it is very deeply moved. Scampering to and fro over the earth, she smelled food-dishes, boxes, and the barrel laid on its side that was her bedroom. That showed her love of locality. Then she saluted her little friends with nose-touchings and piggy yells of bliss, and finally fell soberly to munching hay.
I suppose one should strive against the tendency to humanize birds and animals, yet one cannot help admiring and sympathizing when one finds them showing like qualities with ourselves. Take this capacity for homesickness, for example. Apart from the torture of captivity, experienced by a wild bird when caged even in a large place, there is a dislike on the part of birds and animals that are reconciled to a state of captivity to being moved from one place to another. Some time ago I was visiting an aviary, and while waiting for the curator had some conversation with a pair of cockatoos that were walking in and out of his office, apparentlyvery much at home. One of them started to gnaw the scrap basket to pieces, and when I advised him to desist, lest his master should be angry with him, he gave me a peculiarly intelligent glance, and walked out of the room.
When the curator arrived, he told me the birds were suffering from homesickness. Wishing to have some repairs made in their large cage, he had moved them to another, where they pined visibly, and at last became ill. Being great pets, he was keeping them with him; and after a time, I was pleased to hear, they both recovered.
To return to the guineapigs—to those persons who insist on saying they are stupid, I would like to state that I never saw any animal or any bird kinder to the young of other animals or birds than those same guineapigs.
I have seen human mothers kind and devoted to their own children, and to say the least of it, neglectful and egotistical when it came to the offspring of others. I have seen dogs, cats, and birds absolutely hateful to the young of their own kind. I never saw, even an old grandfather guineapig, in any way intentionally injure or molest a baby guineapig, or any other kind of a baby. I have seen them go round them or over them, but never bite, or push, or snarl, or snap at young ones. Occasionally, I have known old pigs to kill young ones accidentally, on account of their love of sociability.
They all slept in barrels with plenty of newspapersand straw to keep the young ones warm, and as they were very fond of calling on each other, particularly when there was the excitement of twins or triplets in a family, they would sometimes crowd too closely in a barrel, and smother a baby to death.