We’ve all had those awkward houseguest moments. You know, when you get busted spying in the medicine cabinet or rummaging through the fridge at 2 a.m. Or you break a cherished family heirloom or spill red wine on the white carpet.

Well take that and multiply it by a googolplex and you have an inkling of my latest spring break excursion.
Worst. Houseguest. Ever.

While I would like to say the aforementioned incident occurred at a far away, exotic place where I never will have to worry about showing my face again, I’m afraid I cannot. For me and my clan, a legitimate spring break seldom happens, and when it does, it is far from exotic. Unless you consider a trip to visit an old college chum in Denver exotic (in which case, you have an even lamer existence than me.)

About once or twice a year, we make the pilgrimage to the Front Range for a city fix: professional sporting events; rock and roll shows; big box shopping anywhere other than Wal-Mart. And of course, we visit old friends – the ones who go so far back that they can remember when you had hair and swore you’d never get married or have kids. They remember when you stole their coveted pair of green jeans (hey, it was the early ’90s) and proceeded to wipe out on those metal ski resort stairs, rip a huge hole in the knee, and sneak them back in the closet like no one would notice. And they still like you. In other words, the friends you can’t replace.

Anyway, last weekend, we had barely disembarked from the fun wagon and exchanged greetings when the family mutt, Daisy, went missing. Anyone who knows the family mutt, a neurotic herding type, knows she would just as soon crawl under my skin than lose sight of me with her one blue eye. Thus, the sudden absence was highly suspicious and probably meant she was up to no good.

 I immediately searched the most obvious place first: the kitchen pantry. When this failed to turn up a snout firmly implanted in a potato chip or dog food bag, I continued on, fearing the worst.

I breathed a sign of relief as I walked into the living room to find her settling into their dog’s crate for a little nap. “Oh how cute,” I thought, scolding myself for always thinking the worst of my canine, whose checkered past has earned her the reputation as the “Lassie” Lohan of dogs. She’s so cute and tries so hard, and you really hope she’ll straighten out – but she just can’t seem to stay out of trouble.

And that’s when it dawned on me that something was askew with the situation. For starters, the entire side of the crate, a flimsy metal grate, appeared to be busted out and the top panel was wide open. And, well, for seconds, she was standing over a very scared, rather large rodent cowering underneath a green plastic igloo.

That overwhelming and familiar feeling of horror, panic and nausea washed over me. As you may have surmised, the doggy crate was not for dogs at all, but home to two guinea pigs, Buddy and George. They apparently were of no interest to the family’s sweet and extremely well-behaved black Lab, which would explain why they were housed on the floor of the living room in a questionably secure cage in plain view of other not-so-benign canines.

George, the surlier, smaller and presumably faster of the two, was lucky enough to make it to the safety module, while Buddy, his sweeter, much larger and apparently slower roomie, well, not so much.

OK, so this is where if you are an animal lover (which I am, really – why else would I have adopted the crazy meth head in the first place?) you may want to look away (which I did, to no avail) or write me a letter about how none of this is cute or funny at all and actually quite sickening.
Which I would wholeheartedly agree with. In fact, it was so not funny that I began hyperventilating and having heart palpitations.

By now, Daisy had sensed this was nearly as glorious as killing the rat that had built a nest in my husband’s bike shoes on the back porch or stalking the clever squirrel that lives under the neighbor’s porch. And there definitely would not be a treat awarded for her endeavor.

She quietly slinked away while I assessed the situation. Buddy remained motionless, but strangely enough, showed no signs of physical trauma. No bite marks, no blood. He seemed at peace, like he was sleeping – but with his eyes open.

I briefly considered closing the cage, tip toeing away and acting like nothing happened, just like I did with the green jeans. But as we all know, those things have a way of slipping out, especially after a few drinks. And to top it off, I’m a horrible liar (some would say brutally honest. I mean, how many people would divulge a horrific story like this to the whole world?)

So, when it became apparent Buddy was not playing dead, I did what any rational, calm, honest adult would do when their dog has mistaken someone’s cherished family rodent as a squeak toy. I freaked out. Fortunately, the terror in my eyes and ghostly shade of white did most of the talking when I returned to the group a few moments later and nonchalantly inquired as to the contents of the cage.

Perhaps it was the use of the past tense, as in “What was in the cage,” but before I knew it, the jig was up. Kujo was instantly banished to the fun wagon, and parents found themselves talking in clichés, like “nature taking its course” and “guinea pig heaven.”

(In all fairness, I would like to point out that I did offer ample warning soon after our arrival of my dog’s morbid obsession with anything furry and small that moves. And you can hardly blame her, when from puppyhood dogs are taught to chase and rip the stuffing out of furry toys till the squeaking stops. Plus, the evidence against her, while quite damning, was purely circumstantial. Only three creatures know what happened that day – one is dead and the other two aren’t talking.)

Ultimately, in the end, the death was ruled a “heart attack,” which seemed much more palatable to the young minds, and the funeral was open-casket. We paid our last respects, offered heart-felt apologies to Buddy and George, who was probably greatly traumatized (although one can never tell with guinea pigs), and brought the Nike box casket to the vet for a dignified cremation (which was more than he would have gotten on the streets of Chile, I might add.)

As for the mutt, she got to keep her life, although a return trip to the shelter was threatened amid much protest from the younger members of the clan. And me – I miraculously got to keep my friendship through it all.

Which might not be all that great. Just like the mutt, payback can be a real bitch.

– Missy Votel