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Meet Georgie, Our Guinea Pig

It may be hard to believe, but a pet like Georgie is just another reminder that my family and I are truly Americans now.
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October 5, 2021
Stock photo by Alexandra Jursova / Getty Images (Not actually Georgie)

“I’m not sure I like the way it’s looking at me,” my father remarked about the guinea pig I procured for my kids last October. 

“It looks that way at everyone,” I replied. 

“Is it a hamster?” my mother asked. 

“No, hamsters are much smaller,” I said, unable to remember the Persian translation for “guinea pig.” And without that translation, my parents and I were at an impasse, because, like many Iranians, they had never seen a guinea pig before. 

“Whatever it is, it has fantastic hair,” my father said. It’s true. Our pet has an adorable (and natural) fluffy, white mohawk.

It took two weeks before I finally learned that the translation for “guinea pig” in Persian is “khookcheh-yeh-Hendi” (“little Indian pig”). Not that it mattered much. My mother still calls and asks how our hamster is doing. 

I bought “Georgie,” as his last owner called him, on a whim when I noticed a post on a local Facebook group asking if anyone wanted to give a sweet guinea pig a new home. I had wanted a pet for my sons, ages 3 and 5, but months earlier, the good folks at PetSmart had warned me that hamsters bite. My husband is allergic to dogs, and while I love birds, he’s not a fan of their constant squawking. As for cats, I find them to be too independent, and, for some strange reason, I love pets who are demanding and whiny, perhaps because they remind me of myself.

The Talmud tells us we must feed our animals before we feed ourselves, which is why Georgie gets his morning Persian cucumber before anyone else eats breakfast. 

Suffice it to say, “demanding” and “whiny” fit Georgie to a tea; when he’s hungry (he’s always hungry) he fills our home with the trademark guinea pig squeaking that makes my heart melt. The Talmud tells us we must feed our animals before we feed ourselves, which is why Georgie gets his morning Persian cucumber before anyone else eats breakfast. 

Yes, Persian cucumber. His last owner (who is also Iranian) fed him Persian cucumbers in addition to his normal diet of Timothy hay and pellets, and now, Georgie refuses to eat any other type of cucumber, whether English, Kirby, or Diva. One time, I unknowingly offered him a small piece of English cucumber, and I could have sworn that he cursed me under his breath before tossing it aside. 

In truth, Georgie (we gave him the full name “George Washington”) is eating me out of house and home and produce. A few weeks ago, on Yom Kippur, as I approached his cage, tired and starving, I almost lost my mind as the singularly fresh scent of a Persian cucumber I brought him wafted through the air. I’m not proud of it, but I contemplated breaking my fast and swiping a cucumber from a lovable rodent. 

A few months ago, I decided to get Georgie a mate. Though I love him and cuddle with him a lot (he’s just agreed to belly rubs), I know he would love a friend. But when I arrived at PetSmart and found a slew of cute, baby guinea pigs, I was told that if I introduced another male into Georgie’s cage, the second guinea pig would most likely end up with its eyes scratched out. When I asked about a female guinea pig, she delivered some disturbing news. In fact, her exact words were, “You can if you want to, but your male will probably rape the female all day long.” 

That was enough for me. I’ll continue to research an option for a mate (I can’t bear the thought of Georgie being lonely), but I draw the line at her awful warning. Currently, I’m looking into getting Georgie neutered, though I doubt he would want me sharing such sensitive information with readers. 

It may be hard to believe, but a pet like Georgie is just another reminder that my family and I are truly Americans now. He wins our hearts and eats our food. I spend more on his absorbent cage “bedding” than I do on my own bedsheets. And he reminds us that we live in a country free of oppression, where we can focus on our animals because we’re not merely trying to survive. 

True to form, my sister also recently brought home a pet — a wonderful dog — whom she named “Benji.” His full name: Benjamin Franklin.


Tabby Refael is a Los Angeles-based writer, speaker, and civic action activist. Follow her on Twitter @RefaelTabby

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