One of our two Guinea Pigs, Fajita, died today. My daughter found him, while she was home alone. He is survived by his brother, Jelly Bean. They shared five years together with us.

No one will accuse me of being a man's man. I cried at my work cubicle when I heard the news, I cried when I finally left to drive home, and I cried again tonight when I saw him, and when I cleaned their cage.

I didn't want him to die. Sounds like the most obvious thing to say. Who would want a seemingly happy animal to die? And yet I need to say it, so there it is. Why should a Guinea Pig move a grown man to tears? It isn't like he met me at the door or played fetch, or knew when I was sad. He moved me because I loved him. And what else needs to be said. Should I have loved him? Am I really substituting grief at his death for greater griefs I cannot face square on?

Who can know. What I do know is that one we cared for is gone, and there is a tear in the fabric of the heart.