Reality cuy

My brother Pol raises guinea pigs. Guinea pigs or cuyes in Peru are a main source of protein for many people that live up in the mountains but down here on the coast, most people refer to them as rats without tails. Despite eating cuy a few times, I find myself siding with the latter’s point of view. However, a few people eat them around here and being that they multiply quickly and don’t die as easily as chickens, they’re the more sensible choice.

So as I was saying, Pol has been slowly raising the number of cuyes we have in our house from three to thirteen (not counting the ones we’ve given away or eaten). He built them a nice little cage outside in our “yard” using the wood and plastic signs the politicians used to hang up there propaganda during the mayoral elections last November. That way, the cuyes get to look at the face of Carlos Purisaca giving his thumbs up sign while they eat their morning corn stalks.

Since our pet parrot Polly died a looooong time ago and Blanco the dog does not get any attention whatsoever, the cuyes have become my family’s source of entertainment (we don’t own a tv or radio) as well as our source of drama. I find this hilarious and at times, stressful.

For example, we can never have more than one of two males in the same caged area because they always resort to fighting and would eventually kill each other fighting over the females if we didn’t intervene. As a result, we are always trying different combinations of living arrangements between the cuyes. Last month, everything seemed fine until my uncle Juaro brought a cuy up the coast from his town in the department of Ancash. This new girl was a real b**** with a large chuck of hair that had been torn off her nose in one of her previous cage-fights. I like to give names to the cuyes in order to make them seem more “pet-like” but all I could call this one was “Blanca.” The second she stepped paw into her cage with the other eight females it was like watching a wolf chase a herd of sheep. I had never seen something so aggressive! She went berserk biting, clubbing and jumping the poor other innocent little gals in her area. It was painful to watch.

Eventually though, a balance came to the chaos and I have found myself growing accustomed to sitting in the hammock, watching the dynamic of them all. There’s my favorite who I call chocolate-caramel who is mute and can’t chirp like the rest. There’s Francisco who has a ridiculous amount of hair and then there’s Big Girl who is really fat and lazy and I have been assuming incorrectly for the past few months that she is pregnant. They’re all adorable. I especially like watching them in the afternoon retire to their designated corners and sleep or cuddle with each other.

Unfortunately this week Pol discovered all of the cuyes were infested with lice. So naturally, he went to Tumbes and came back with some creepy red-liquid that would apparently get rid of them. Two days ago,Yeni (mom), Pol and I went outside where we spread little droplets of the venom on the cuyes’ backs and stomachs and watched as the liquid turned their hair all pink. It was actually pretty cute to watch the cuyes parade around with pink Mohawks in their hair.

Well it was cute until we found one of the little ones dead yesterday morning. Apparently Pol didn’t listen very well when the doctor said the amount of lice venom that Pol bought was meant for a 650 lb cow and we used it ALL for a total of 13 cuyes that added up to no more than 25 lbs collectively. We essentially poisoned them all and are now waiting with fingers crossed to avoid seeing anymore bite the dust. Time will tell. However, I will try not to dwell on such tragedies.

Instead, I will talk about how two months ago, chocolate-caramel gave birth to three babies. They instantly became my favorite litter. One (who I nicknamed skunk) came out black with white stripes and was nothing more than a furry hairball. His sister came out normal as well. However, the third my brother nicknamed the “mongolito” or “deformed one.” I had been traveling in Cajamarca when they were born and when I came back, my brother informed me that we now had a handicapped cuy as part of our family. I went outside to see what he was talking about when I found a little dark-brown cuy in the bottom of a bucket, covered in a sheet.

“He can’t walk and won’t die.” My host mom said. “ He’s weak and we’ve had to feed him your aunt’s breast milk.”

Yes that’s right. The cuy’s mother wouldn’t feed her crippled offspring so my host mom had taken to asking her sister who had just given birth to donate some of her HUMAN breast milk for the baby cuy, which she fed to the cuy via a medicine dropper. Somehow, the cuy drank it but then my mother decided it no longer was worthy of my aunt Miriam’s breast milk and decided to let it starve to death. I practically choked upon hearing of this cruelty.

“Let me take it to the vet. I’ll see what the doctor says.”

“Ask if you can donate him for some science study” my mom replied.

That sounded worse than letting him die of hunger so Monday morning I took “Simon” (I thought it sounded better than mongolito) to the vet. As I stood on the side of the road, waiting for a car, I felt happy to be holding something so small in my hands and all wrapped up in a washcloth. I named myself as Simon’s caregiver, his guardian angel if you will, that refused to let him be forgotten about. As we waited for the car, I felt like a proud mother, holding her baby and protecting him from the rest of the world. That day, I walked around with Simon all cuddled up in the washcloth and showed him to anybody interested. I’m sure he appreciated the fresh air and attention. When I finally walked into D’Manolo’s vet store, I had no desire to part with him but was afraid of what my family would say if I brought him home again.

“What is that, is it a dog”?

I have no idea how people figured that something no larger than a teabag was a puppy but whatever. I protectively let no child come near him until I unwrapped him for the doctor to see.

“This guy’s fine, he’s just a little mineral-deficient- he’ll be okay in a few weeks” was what Dr. Manolo told me. All he needed was a little extra care and he would definitely be able to get that while living at the vet. I reluctantly made a little bed for Simon, full of newspaper and his washcloth and said goodbye as I walked with my head down to the car that was waiting to take me home.

Two days later I went back to the vet to ask about Simon when the doctor told me he had given him away to an old lady that would take care of him and give him the vitamins he needed. He said Simon was in good hands and I believe him but I still wish he would have given him back to me.