Sometimes you learn about something that after you know it, you wish you hadn’t. Today I’ll be using that technique to emotionally scar those of you who feel inclined to lurk on my journal.
When Alan was little, he had one (if not more) hamsters that met with various demises. I remember loving to build little environments for each one to run though and play. They were warm, soft, and cuddly. Or at least that was my impression until one of them took a provoked bite out of Alan’s finger.
That was when my impression changed completely. No longer were these the tiny fur balls being forced into domestication, but rather little ticking time bombs of teeth. Ever since that day, I have never handled a hamster, knowing that at any moment after being lured into a false sense of security he could go straight for my jugular in the blink of an eye.
While still fascinated, from a distance, it’s been quite a while since I’ve seen anyone with a live animal that thrives on lettuce.
That is until James bought a Guinea Pig to the surprise of the rest of the clan. Henry is cute, adorable, has a racing stripe, and, I’m told, is inclined to nip on occasion, re-validating all my childhood irrational fears on heresy alone.
At work James, who I consider to be one of my top talented and educated friends, shared with me a fact that had to be utter bullsh*t.
Guinea Pigs eat their own droppings.
I’ll wait a moment while that last statement sinks in. While I do, contemplate this as well: this is behavior is regular, intentional, and necessary.
Sometimes they eat straight straight from the anus, sometimes they pick dropping up off the floor. Sometimes they steal droppings from other Guinea Pigs as they’re being produced.
Naturally, as a human you want to empathize with the Guinea Pig, and you may imagine what this would be like. You may be reaching for a tube of mental-image Crest right now.
“James, what kind of animal eats it’s own sh*t?”
“Guinea Pigs do. And it’s not sh*t.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s nutritional pellets. The process is called Coprophagy. They can’t digest more complex things, so the first pass through the system is to break it down. The second time they can digest it.”
{weird look from me}
“Seriously, it’s true.”
“James, what hole does it come out of?”
“The anus.”
“See, it’s sh*t.”
This is what physiologists call a classical case of denial. Obviously James had witnessed this feat first hand, researched it to see if his Guinea Pig needed counseling (or his *ss sewn shut), and looked it up.
Intellectually, I knew James would never say such a thing — and therefore, he had to be right about it. So, I went home and contemplated it.
You see, my mind had to formulate some way that an animal would willing eat out of it’s own b*tt like a breakfast buffet and like it.
The solution dawned on me.
“James, about that salad tossing Guinea Pig of yours…”
“Yes? All do it, it’s not just mine.”
“Fine. I’ve come to the conclusion that you say it isn’t sh*t because of what it’s made of. I say it is based on the plumbing that it comes out of.”
At that point, James whips out a book (boy, is he prepared or what!) and has me read the details. It went something like this:
“Coprophagy (eating the soft cecal feces) is vital to the good health of all cavies as it provides them with necessary nutrients. Cavies may eat the soft cecal feces 150 to 200 times in a day, usually directly from the anus. If an animal is obese or pregnant, they maybe expelled and eaten from the floor. Very young cavies may also eat their mother’s soft droppings. Some cavies have been known to snatch cecal feces from other pigs. These feces are supposedly the best ones to feed a sick cavy on antibiotics in order to reinoculate good bacteria into the digestive system. The drier fecal pellets are also used but do not contain as many beneficial bacteria.”
At this point I’m wondering exactly whether this was found in a hole in the corner book store off some dark alley, or whether animal doctors should be finding something more constructive to do with their spare time. I’m also wondering about what author would approach a book publisher and say, “I’ve got a sales pitch for you, let’s do an entire book on animals that enjoy self-indulgent *ss-munching” and the publisher who says, “b*tchin’ idea, get to work.”
Sad at it may seem, it appears the fact is true.
This raised several more questions:
1. If the pellets were coming from the same hole, wouldn’t they be flavored in such a way as not to be palatable?
2. If the Guinea Pig is going right to the tap, how does he know whether feces or pellets are about to come out?
3. And do mistakes happen?
We both contemplated that and shuddered.
Which brings me to my final conclusion, just because something’s normal, doesn’t necessarily make it right.