At the end, Eggie and Monty were inseparable.

Or, requiem for a flyweight

On a recent biweekly trip to the produce market, I bought my usual grove of fresh greenery—eight heads of romaine and red lettuce, jumbo bags of carrots and cucumbers, hands-full of apples and plums and peppers and string beans, plus all the herbs we haven’t been able to grow at home.

As I checked out, the man behind me said, “Do you have a restaurant or something?”

“No,” I said. “I have guinea pigs. And let me tell you, they can eat you out of house and home.”

Unfortunately, I no longer have guinea pigs, at least not in the plural. A week ago, the oldest of our pigs passed away. Monty—named for his striking resemblance to the actor Montgomery Clift—lived with us almost five years, and his loss is keenly felt by everyone in the family. Our other pig, Eggie—named for his striking resemblance to an enormous fuzzy egg—seems downcast and alone in his cage.

Our first pig was a classroom pet that had been left at school all summer, with only the janitor to stop by every few days with food. Aware that guinea pigs are very social creatures—and also that they like to eat on a daily basis—I took the poor thing in, and never returned him. That was Francis. He was the first in a long, long line.

Over the years, we’ve taken enormous pleasure in our little friends, sometimes called “beanmakers” (for obvious reasons). Guinea pigs whistle and “wheek” when they want love or food—which is always—and make endearing murmuring sounds when they’re held and petted.

Unfortunately, along with mice, hamsters, hermit crabs and other small beings, guinea pigs are often put forth as sort of “starter pets,” ideal for teaching responsibility to children so they can graduate to “real” animals like dogs or cats. In memory of my Monty, I would like to affirm that guinea pigs need as much loving care and attention as any pet. They’re not happy to live alone in an aquarium or cage, with nothing but a passing glance once the novelty wears off. They’re not toys to be enjoyed for a moment and forgotten. They can live for seven years or longer, so before you take one in, realize you’re making a substantial commitment, as with any other animal you bring into the home.

All right, end of sermonette. Let me share one anecdote to illustrate the sensitive and even loving nature of guinea pigs. For years, Monty and Eggie lived on our sun porch, in separate cages. They jumped in and out at will, scurried about at their leisure. Once Monty fell ill, he retired to his cage, hunkering down in his little wooden house, and never came out again.

Now, I had always thought of Eggie as the big brute of our brood, a bunchy fuzzy thing as big as a football. But when Monty got sick, Eggie moved out of his own house and into the house next door—Monty’s house. They lived together until Monty died, a tender demonstration of the bond between them.

A passage in the book Watership Down by Richard Adams comforts me now. The classic novel about a society of rabbits ends with the death of the rabbit Hazel. Adams writes about death in a natural, almost offhand way: “It seemed to Hazel that he would not be needing his body anymore, so he left it lying on the edge of the ditch, but stopped for a moment to watch his rabbits, and to try to get used to the feeling that strength and speed were flowing inexhaustibly out of him and into their sleek young bodies and healthy senses.”

Hazel then “slips away, running easily down through the wood, where the first primroses were beginning to bloom.”

In a similar vein, in the book Seeking Enlightenment, Hat by Hat, the wonderful writer Nevada Barr describes the passing of an old dog. Holding Tilly as she died, Barr writes, “I came to believe in life after death.

“It didn’t look as if she’d gone to sleep; it was crystal clear that the essential Tillyness had gone away. I could see life; it was something, a real thing, not merely an animation of matter. I saw it, and then I saw it leave. I knew the value of life, all life, everybody’s life. I saw it glittering all around me. I know this knowledge will come and go, and I will mourn every time I lose sight of one beloved speck of it.”

Monty was one beloved speck. I like to think the life that surged through him is just as marvelous, complex and meaningful as that which is not yet extinguished in me. I hope he lives on somewhere.