Franklin da pig

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The pigs chew on my bracelets, sometimes. I think it’s their way of trying to return the back-scratching favor. 

Every day I come home from work and this little weasel jumps on his platform and starts squealing at me.

I like to think that he’s telling me about his day and asking me about mine.

So, I open his cage and pat his back and say, “Thank you, Franklin, for greeting me so nicely every day. Hello, hello, baby. I missed you when I was at work.”

And then the other guinea pig, Kiwi, gets fussy, too, so I pet her a little bit. And this back-and-forth continues until I close their cages and go about my life.

The squealing resumes once I start making dinner and they smell the spinach or kale or carrots I’m dicing, and they squeal again, and I feed them their evening meal.

Should I even talk about pets on a blog that’s kind of mostly about faith and journey and stuff? I think: sure. I mean, they are a part of my life. A tiny part. A tiny, fuzzy part that squeals at me, every day, when I get home.

And, ever, the small things are what often make the best memories in life.

And so: Franklin, with white paws and a face the color of a sweet potato. ❤

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