I was living in denial, but I eventually was forced to face the facts: this family can’t own pets.

The guinea pig experiment started out so well, it looked like it might just work. For a while… Two fuzzballs in a wooden pet cabinet on the back porch. The girls did the feeding, cleaning, and grooming. Visitation hours were spent in the girls’ bedroom, in limited spurts, vacuuming afterwards. Anna and Sarah washed their hands after use and kept the guinea pigs far away from me to the best of their ability. We were all very OCD, very Adrian Monkish. On paper, it worked.

But the guinea pigs grew. They ate, got fatter, and more furry. The winter days brought colder weather and school was in full swing. We all got busy.

No worries. The animals lived through that. That’s not where this is going.

But in the midst of this routine, my allergies kicked in and regardless of my heavy doses of medication, I simply couldn’t breathe whenever the GPs were in the house. It was like an iron band was clamped around my lungs. I simply couldn’t inhale and exhale. Inhalers, nasal spray, and antihistamines delivered little results. The GPs may have only been in the apartment for 10 minutes, but I would struggle the rest of the evening. The wheezing, the coughing, the sneezing made it obvious.

Something had to give. We called a family meeting to discuss the fate of the Johnsons and their salt and pepper pigs.

The long and the short of it: we decided the GPs had to find a new home. There were tears, explanations, apologies; the usual parent-kid talk. Because me and pets just don’t mix, we all decided that it would be best for us to find ways for the girls to be around animals outside of the home.

Two days later, c/o Craig’s List, the GPs were gone, swept away like their daily hay—given to a nice lady who loves guinea pigs that wanted to gift Emme and Poppi to a friend. A bit sad, tragic really. Most of the time it’s not a problem, but when it comes to my kids, I hate having this Achilles heel of allergies. The girls often tell me all the animals they will have when they’re “grown-up” which is fitting since Anna has plans to be a singer / zookeeper and Sarah, a vet who works at Anna’s zoo.

I think they handled the occupational setback pretty well though. There have been no tears since. The GP recipient has already emailed photos to the girls so that they know their pets are in good hands.

The pet experiment was necessary for the family—an investment in experience as Christa termed it. I think Anna will miss them some, but not like she would have a cat or dog. But we do have consolation plans; hopes to involve the girls in 4-H and maybe an animal rescue / refuge type thing (when they are old enough.) There are good alternatives to owning your own pet. And we’ll figure out which ones work for us.

Until pharmacological technology catches up to my current afflictions, I guess I’ll remain the Boy in the Bubble. There are worse fates. And when your kids give you those puppy dog eyes, you sure do feel like the guy handing out eviction notices at the Hotel for Dogs. Sigh.