We got two guinea pigs that were just
for Christmas. Both were a patchwork
of grey and brown and beige
cushion fur, musk scent, pinprick eyes.
They nibbled our lawn enough that moving
the hutch could have kept the mower useless.
By Boxing day the foxes got to the pigs -
cuts of hair clung to half chewed grass
while tiny blood paw prints branded the path.
We wore gloves to bury the gnawed
spinal cords and burst skulls
- those Marigolds staining to a warm orange.