flossing the cat

A couple of months ago we acquired two baby guinea pigs - my eight-year-old daughter's reward for learning her times tables.  For a hutch, we bought an adorable Bavarian-style des res  with an attractive tongue and grove exterior, an enclosed sleeping area, large recreational/ living spaces, and extensive views. Every day, we prepared vibrant medleys of organic cucumbers, peppers, and cherry tomatoes, served with oodles of aromatic chamomile grass. We even bought a pigloo to die for, ffs.   But then, a couple of weeks ago, on one of the hottest days of the year, the little fuckers escaped. At first, I was kind of relaxed, partly because I could hear them speed-talking in the flower border, congratulating each other on their escape, comparing it with the great historic escapes of Colditz and Alcatraz. And in spite of having a whole day’s work ahead of me, a couple of deadlines, and a pile of shitty housework, I figured that a food trail of cunningly placed cucu