Meet Dinky

Anne and Dinky ~ Swampscott, MA ~ 1970's

Dinky was my little red-headed short-haired guinea pig, and I was quite fond of him. Him? Maybe it wasn't even a him. Who knows. Anyhow, later I got another guinea pig, a companion for Dinky. He was a long-haired calico number whom I named Arthur. At some point, both Dinky and Arthur went to live with my little cousins who called them Dinky and "Arkur." I'm guessing they were shipped a few blocks away because

A) I wasn't a stellar caretaker

B) My Dad was fed up with the whole shit show (he's not quite an animal person)

C) A combination of A and B

After I returned from a summer visiting my Grama in Olean, I was told that Dinky died. Even though I hadn't seen him in months having lost custody and all, I was devastated. I remember hysterically crying in the front yard about it. I assumed he died naturally, peacefully; he just took a nap and went on up to adorable rodent heaven. I'm sure my Mom broke the news in the most gentle way a Mom can explain death to a little kid. Years and years later, she told me the truth: Arkur ate Dinky. Basically. Or Dinky died of "old age" and Arkur nibbled on his remains. Something like that.

So, I prefer to remember Dinky in his prime, as photographed above. I'd like to forget however the horrible clothes I'm wearing in the picture, no doubt some polyester hand-me-downs from my Aunt Kathie in Illinois. Powder blue poly bell bottoms? I probably found them hip and exotic and insisted on wearing them, to my mother's chagrin. She never would have dressed me in those.

Anyway, RIP Dinky and Arkur. We hardly knew ye.

The End.