by Dorothy Hoffman

Created on: September 11, 2009   Last Updated: September 17, 2009

Jennifer was spunky, lively little Peruvian-style guinea pig, the first pet I had after moving away from home, into my first apartment. She had swirls of longish tan and white fur all over with a crazy tuft sticking straight up in front, like a Mohawk haircut, and another wayward tuft in the back that gave the illusion of a perky little tail. She was full of energy and very active and affectionate. I was hooked on guinea pigs in no time, and Jenny became as much my "family" as any of the more traditional dogs and cats I'd lived with as a child.

Whenever I went home to my parents' house for a weekend or holiday, I'd load up the car with Jenny's cage and supplies - she loved to travel (something none of my pets since have enjoyed). When I returned to my apartment at the end of a workday, Jenny was always there to greet me with her cheerful chirping, and every morning as soon as she heard me stirring, she'd begin to sing for her breakfast. She loved to run in circles around me on the floor in the evening, and jump up on my lap when she'd had enough exercise. She'd join me for dinner, sometimes - even testing some of the more exotic flavors (chocolate chip ice cream was one of her favorites, hardly the typical herbivore diet) - or watch a little TV before bedtime. Jenny liked to stretch out on my arm, snuggling into my elbow, and during the winter she would crawl into my sweater sleeve and enjoy the warmth.

For a while, I think I'd almost convinced myself Jenny was indestructible. She'd be with me forever - I just couldn't imagine coming home to an apartment without her there to greet me. But, of course, no one escapes death in the end, and Jenny's end came just four short years after she'd moved into my apartment and into my heart.

I believe Jenny died of pneumonia, and if I'd been able, back then, to find a vet who knew something about guinea pigs, she might well have survived. She had so much spirit, and fought so hard to hold onto life. Jenny was sick of about five weeks, and for most of that time she had to be hand fed, mostly from an eyedropper. I'd pick her up as soon as I returned from work and tuck her into my sweater sleeve where she shivered for about half an hour until her little body was finally warm enough. Then she'd simply collapse into a deep, restful sleep. I'd have to coax her to take some food from the eyedropper each night.

On the morning of her death, Jenny tried to climb out of her cage as I was saying goodbye to her, and I almost called

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