When I was a young lad of tender age, I had a pet guinea pig named Heathcliff.  He was shiny and black and made the most terrible noise when he would get excited.  Because I loved him so, I wanted him to experience the world outside his glass pen that I kept in my room — the pen that filled my room with the dirty musky smell of a guinea pig.  I took him from his little prison, cradled him in my arms and then walked out into the bright sunlight of a clear Ohio day.  Heathcliff was stark black against the green grass.  I watched with joy as he nibbled bits of the lush vegetation with much eagerness.  I soon grew tired of it and went inside.  That evening, my mom said that Heathcliff went away.  I was sad.  Years later I found out that when she said “went away”, she meant that the neighbor’s dog had eaten him.