Today was the best day ever in Malibu—warm, sunny, relaxing—a regular day in paradise. Paradise Cove to be exact. And, as my friend Dominique and I were resting our eyes in our Adirondack chairs, toes buried to find cooler sand, waves crashing like thunder on the shore, the seagulls started cawing. “Oh my god!” said Dominique, “Can’t they just shut up?”
I thought the sea birds were adding a nice ambience, him not so much. “Never get a guinea pig,” I advised.
“They make awful noise like this?” he asked.
I started thinking about all of Princess Piggy Poo’s sounds: the wheeks for lettuce in the morning or when she hears rustling in the kitchen; the chortles when I hold her on my lap; the different pitch she uses when I pet her rear or move her hair against the grain; the growl when a plane flies overhead or someone comes to the front door; the cute little sound when we’re playing floor time. Looks like I’ve learned a little guinea pig in the last couple of years.
It made me so happy that I could identify so many of Princess Piggy Poo’s cavy sounds. I’m not one for foreign languages or I would be able to speak French with my friend sitting next to me who’s complaining about the squawking.
“Yeah, guinea pigs aren’t for you,” I said.