The Guinea Pig Circus

“Welcome to the Guinea Pig Circus!” My voice echoes through the striped tent, building to a volume my five-year-old body could never hope to produce. Sam, the ringleader, stands in the center, a top hat perched upon his salt-and-pepper fur. Goldie has donned a light pink tutu—today she is a ballerina, though she has on other occasions played the role of acrobat, magician, and elephant. Her performance is delicate, sweet, paws skipping over the ground as she dances past lions and bears. The crowd cheers, wild with applause as Goldie takes a bow. The circus floor is covered in flowers, and—

“Leah! How many times have I told you not to take the pigs under there?” The circus tent is ripped off, and by the time it hits the floor it is nothing more than an old sheet. My mother stands above me, exasperated as ever. Sam and Goldie squeak wildly and use this opportunity to escape—Sam’s top hat, a simple affair of colored paper, flies off as he skitters under the couch. The next ten minutes are spent luring him out from beneath it with carrots, although I insist that meat would work better. After all, Sam was a tiger not half an hour ago. Goldie the prima ballerina is already back in her cage, Barbie shoes and ribbon skirt placed haphazardly on the table. My carefully arranged circus is destroyed in the process of “rescuing” Sam, bent aluminum rings and  crooked cardboard platforms signaling the end of the entertainment.

“The circus is over for today, okay? Next time ask an adult to take the pigs out for you.” I nod dutifully at her lecture, but inside I am already planning the next performance. A ribbon laid across the table will be a tightrope, a hula-hoop transformed to a ring of fire. I think my mother is disappointed that she did not receive an invitation—the Guinea Pig Circus is a very exclusive event, stuffed animals and best friends only. It would not be nearly as exciting if it weren’t a secret.

It isn’t until I am older that I realize my furtive actions were hardly as well concealed as I thought they were. My mother could see me dragging the sheet down the stairs, setting up the acts, carefully putting together costumes. She would give me half an hour to play with the pigs, then expose my circus to the living room. This, apparently, was her game—she played the part of an unhappy customer. The circus continued in this fashion for a year or so, until I was too old to carry on the charade. But when Sam and Goldie died, I buried their outfits with them, teeny circus paraphernalia that I had saved for years.

I can only hope that somewhere out there the Guinea Pig Circus lives on, Sam and Goldie its eternal stars.