14July2005

I’m quite fond of animals. I guess most of us are. This fondness was fostered very early in my life. I would have been all of six years old. I felt the need to bond with something other than human beings. So my mother brought me two guinea pigs. Lord knows where she got them from. We were living in Wellington at the time and it was the war years. That’s the WWII war. I thought finding two guinea pigs for domestic purposes in those troubled times was an amazing effort. You would have expected that guinea pigs like every other able bodied person or animal would have been called up for active service. After all genuine guinea pig fur would have provided a wonderful liner for bomber crew jackets. And for all I know may have been. Notwithstanding their possible contribution to the war effort two guinea pigs, one brown and white and the other mainly black with flecks of white, arrived on the front porch. They were immediately incarcerated like prisoners of war in a wire cage that my father had hastily constructed. I fed them religiously for two weeks on oatmeal, carrots and lettuce leaves. They seemed to enjoy this diet. I would talk to them and they to me. We shared a host of secrets. One night as I was about to put the cover over them for the night my father noticed some furious activity in the cage. I had no idea what it was all about suffice to say my father remarking “we can handle two guinea pigs but I don’t know about ten”. I found this remark puzzling. I only had two animals. I had no intention of acquiring any more. But I realise now that I had not at that tender age been educated in the secrets of life.

That night there was a violent southerly storm. Wind and rain lashed the front porch. I could hear it from my bedroom. At first light I pulled the curtains from over the front door. My worst fears were confirmed. The little cage was lying on its side. I know pigs can’t fly but these ones had. All that was left was the remnants of last night’s oatmeal and lettuce. And small pathetic teeth marks on one of the remaining carrots. I was crestfallen. My mother sought to console me. “Perhaps your guinea pigs are enjoying a better life. In the wild. After all it was a bit unnatural having them cooped up in a cage.” My father said nothing. He went out to the wash house to skim the frothing yeast off a batch of home brew he had been fermenting in the copper for the last few weeks. After a week or so I become accustomed to their absence. But I was always had that nagging feeling that the cage got conveniently overturned by a force other than nature on that stormy night. Like my dad. He could deal with two. But ten – no. In the end it was something we never discussed. I often wished to ask him “Dad, did you up end my guinea pig cage that stormy night?” Well I could never sum up the courage to ask him. But he did let it slip one day. “Son, those guinea pigs will be better off in the bush. They’ll probably turn into lions.” I was too young to appreciate the Darwinian references in this statement. Transmutation. Guinea pigs turning into lions?

Well last Saturday there I was at Eden Park to witness the fulfillment of my father’s prophecy. There on the paddock were 15 Lions. And over the space of a mere 80 minutes I watched them turn into guinea pigs. I was amazed. I was overcome with emotion. I wanted to feed them oatmeal, a lettuce leaf and carrots as I had done all those years ago. But I knew like their coach Clive. who was hoping to rekindle his historic win in Sydney all those years ago, trying to revive the past really ever works. Perhaps guinea pigs can fly?