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 than one 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, apparently very 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.