Well, maybe you have. Another version, anyway.

You know, just because a Guinea Pig stops eating his foraging-encouraging food doesn't mean he's ill. 

As the last few weeks passed and GP's only symptom seemed to be a disinterest in his cereal-like food, Husband and I decided that this is what the golden years look like for a Guinea pig. Maybe watching his friends (Cat, Dog, Silver Goldfish) pass destroyed his appetite. I talked to him about it, but GP wasn't very forthcoming about his emotional state. He gets it from Husband.

One day last week, I had an appointment in Center City. The previous day I had watched my sister's baby. My parents normally watch her baby so they had loaned me all of Baby Niece's little baby stuff. My sister didn't know I was taking her baby for the day, but that's a story for another day.

On my way to Center City, I was scheduled to drop the baby's stuff at my parent's house. While the children got ready for school, I loaded the baby things into the car, cleaned up breakfast, all the things you'd expect when mom is going to be out of the house for the day on a big Center City adventure.

I stopped off to chat with GP, hoping this would be the day he'd open up about his lackluster appetite. The thing is, I've worked in neurosurgery for 20 years. But even that did not prepare me to find GP in a full-blown seizure.

I mean full-on, neck extended, limbs flailing seizure. And I immediately had three thoughts:

No, no, no! Not ANOTHER pet!

It's a gel injected rectally. I gave some serious thought to using it on poor GP. YOU try watching an animal you love in status epilepticus and see what you're willing to do. And Daughter is unlikely to ever need it. In the end, I refrained. There's no good way to explain to your husband or the world that you couldn't stop your kid's seizure because you used her rescue medicine on the guinea pig. But man, that thought buzzed my head like a swarm of gnats in July.

Muttering the mother of all curse words, I called Mom1 to take the children to school. Then I called the vet because I totally have a vet for my guinea pig.

Forty-five minutes later I sat, holding GP and crying, waiting for the vet. When she entered, I explained that Dog had just died and Daughter's birthday was one week away and I was seriously entertaining replacing GP like I replaced Silver Goldfish.

She gaped at me. "God, what do you even EAT on a day like this? Chocolate alone won't cut it. What do you EAT?" I explained this wasn't a day for eating. It was a day for drinking.

And that was it. GP was gone. And now I was standing in Jenkintown with my Dead Guinea Pig. I had been given the choice of cremating GP or bringing him home for burial. My problem is that I had cremated both Cat and Dog, but I couldn't bring myself to scatter their ashes in my yard. Someday, I'll get old like GP. I won't be able to stay in my house. How can I ever leave knowing the ashes are in a yard I no longer own? And I refuse to store their ashes in my storeroom like some forgotten piece of furniture.

So I keep their ashes in my bar. Husband thinks it's weird. He's probably right. I'd love to say I don't care, but I really do. I just don't know what else to do with the ashes. Adding GP to my ash collection threatens to up the weirdness factor. And overcrowd my bar. So GP was coming home for Husband to bury. I realize this doesn't address the leaving-pets-behind-when-I-go-to-the-old-folk's-home problem. Sometimes you just have to go with what's best for your marriage. Dead animals in the bar are not good for your marriage.

But I still had to go to Willow Grove to drop off the baby stuff. And I was due in Philadelphia in less than 2 hours. I couldn't leave a dead guinea pig in a hot car parked in Center City all day.  So I asked my mom for some help.

"Four animals in a year? I'd say you need help. Stay away from my cat. And your father."

I explained that I didn't have time to get GP back to my house in Bucks County and get to Center City in time. I needed to leave the dead guinea pig with her for the day.

"You know," my mom said, "your siblings only ask to leave their children here."

"A dead guinea pig is easier."

I promised I'd be back later and hightailed it to Center City. I hit my appointment and even picked up some dinner for Husband. I filled him in on GP's demise ("KitKat" is GP):

That evening, I asked Husband to run the kids to karate so I could get GP from my mom.

"Wait, I thought he was dead. Why is he at your mom's?"

I explained.

"I'd say that's crazy, but I bet he was easier than your nieces."

"That's what I said!"

So now, it's just the two goldfish. I've decided my house is like The Highlander TV show, but with animals. And without Adrian Paul.

There can be only one.

I keep singing Queen to the fish. Who will be the prince of the universe?

Wendi's Binge of the Week

Maybe you've skipped Showtime's The Affair because you think it's a bunch of sex. It totally is! But the surrounding story runs deep as an ocean trench. The effects of Noah and Alison's affair spread like a spider's web, affecting people close to them and in their periphery. The story is brilliantly told in installments - once from Noah's point of view, then again from Alison's. Throw in a murder investigation and you've got a good night of television viewing. Season 2 is only two episodes in!(Sundays at 10 on Showtime; episodes are also available for streaming on Showtime, Amazon, and Hulu.)