Pushkin’s First Date
Pushkin’s First Date
I’ VE brUSHED
P USHKIN’s
fur, I’ve cut up crudités for their main course, I’ve put a pink Livingstone daisy in a vase on the table and I’ve given Pushkin a pep talk about first-date etiquette, focusing primarily on the advice that it is best not to bite your date upon meeting her. He seemed as though he understood. He’s as ready as he can be.
We wait, two bachelors with jangled nerves, as Jenny and Flora ascend in the lift to the top floor to find us.
Jenny bustles in, cooing over Pushkin’s fluffiness, and places Flora’s cage next to Pushkin’s.
Flora is sitting in the corner of a red carry cage, looking like someone shaved a hamster.
Pushkin becomes very still. Then he scuttles to the bars of his cage. He sniffs the air, and looks, beady eyes, at her. Flora holds her ground, looking back.
He squeaks.
She replies.
Both guinea pigs press their noses against the bars of their cages, trying to get closer.
‘I think it’s a match.’ Jenny smiles.
For my cavian daughter, only one name will do.
I rechristen her Alora Flora Winston.