While I have become adept at performing manicures on Princess Piggy Poo, from time to time she still scratches my arms if I’m not careful lowering her into her cage. At first I was embarrassed by and tried to hide the red lines on the underside of my wrists, now I don’t even notice them—but that doesn’t mean other people don’t see and comment on them.
”You have a cat?” some man asked nodding toward a fresh scratch.
“A guinea pig,” I said, not sticking around for any further dialogue.
I was offended. You would have thought the man pointed an accusing finger and yelled “Cat Lady!” Not that I have anything against cats. As children we had a couple of dogs, but never cats. My parents are afraid of cats, my mother would always say, “I just don’t trust them.” I know some cool cats now. I might even consider getting a feline friend if my allergies weren’t an issue. I guess what didn’t sit well was the whole “cat lady” notion. It just rubbed me the wrong way.
Technically though, I am a “guinea pig lady” doting on Princess Piggy Poo as if she were my baby. Heck, she’s even got a blog about her. Maybe it’s time I embrace the inevitability that at some point I‘ll have a bunch of little Piggy Poos running under my feet with an orchestra of wheeks coming from inside my house and neighborhood children will walk by saying, “That’s where the Guinea Pig Lady lives.”