Hog Blog

Hedgehogs. Like crossing a bandicoot with an echidna and keeping it in the dark too long. Or, for my less Australian friends, a weird prickly rat-like creature. Endless entertainment, honestly. My boyfriend and I bought a lady hedgehog and, as is the pet shop way, we didn't know she was pregnant. He assumed she was just very introverted, I assumed she was bitter and spoilt and plotting to prickle me to death in my sleep. I named her Paris.

So, one sunny day in Michigan, while on the phone to my parents, Boyfriend runs in yelling "PARIS GAVE BIRTH! PARIS GAVE BIRTH! BABY HOGS WORMS NAKED SQUASHED ONE BABBLEBADJGKSBDG..." Or something along those lines. I did some quick calling around and online hog-baby research and the results weren't good.
"She's too young to have babies, if she doesn't die from childbirth she'll just eat them anyway. It's a miracle if she survives. The babies won't." said the Pet shop owner. The hedgehog breeders we talked to said the same. As did the websites I found. Apparently, Hedgehog mothers CANNOT be disturbed during the first week or so of giving birth or they will eat their young. So Boyfriend picking her up and almost squashing one of her kids probably wasn't a great start.

For the first week we didn't even know how many babies there were, let alone if Paris had chowed down on them. Eventually when she ventured out to eat one day we took a peek, and my snort of disgust was barely drowned out by Boyfriend's coo of delight. Six tiny, naked, spiky maggot-like creatures, blind and pink as an earthworm crawling over each other.

Cut to 8 weeks later, and we somehow managed to keep them all alive, healthy, and happy as a hog can be. All the little terrors went to lovely homes except Monkeyshine (named by my niece). Good luck to you Moriarty, Milo, Oscar, Lilo and Footface.

Thank hog it's over.

Attack of the Rat-Dog

Slowly but surely, dogs are getting smaller. As I sat on the subway I would watch people get on and off with tiny quivering bundles of fur. I often did a double-take wondering if these people were carrying around large (and not even that large) rats. They weren't. As apartments get smaller, so do the pets inside them.

How do you spot a Rat-dog? Rat dogs come in various colours and textures and one, very small, size. Here's a quick guide in case you are unsure if what you are seeing is in fact a dog, or if it's a large rat, pompom, teddy bear, or toilet brush.

1. Is the creature walking by itself? If yes, it is very unlikely to be a Rat-dog. These animals are usually carried in some sort of diamante studded bag, pushed in a baby's carriage, or tucked up in some strange sort of sling.

2. Is it wearing clothes? If yes, it's a Rat-dog. No self respecting dog wears clothing.

3. Is it alone? Rat-dogs are NEVER alone. If they somehow are separated from their owner, they die. Immediately. Their little tartan booties and matching jacket aren't enough to protect them from the world without their special friend.

"What about *your* Rat-dog?" A friend of mine recently asked. My distaste for these tiny, spoilt beasts apparently doesn't extend to my own. He isn't small and rat-like, he's strong and brave like a fireman. He even has a little fireman costume and a tiny red firetruck that I push him around on when his paws get tired...

Happiness is...

I'm not a difficult person to please. Give me a treehouse, a pot of tea, a stack of pancakes or a pineapple and I'm happy. I love tatty floral curtains, my tiger mittens, and I've been known to emit small squeals of delight over snowglobes. If I ever got my dream gift (a smiling-eyed lavender monkey who rides on my shoulder throwing glitter at beautiful people), or the chance to have a pot of tea and pancakes in a magical, ramshackle treehouse, I think my heart would stop with delight. I've accepted that the monkey may not be in my christmas stocking this year, so when a friend recently linked me a picture of the tumble-down treehouse of my dreams, I felt a trumpet of joy. That things like this exist, that people make things like this exist, makes me so happy. Perhaps I'll never get my monkey, but at least somebody somewhere may be polishing off a spot of tea in a magical treehouse. Maybe one day it will be me.