Recently, my family played host to Marmalade, my son Thomas’ fourth-grade class guinea pig.

Thomas and his classmates were taking turns taking the pet home on weekends.

Aside from the smell and Thomas having to clean up after the critter, Marmalade was no bother.

“All he does is eat, drink and poop,” my wife, Julie, observed that Saturday morning.

Marmalade was a hit with the neighborhood children, who stopped by the house to gawk at him. Thomas acted like a proud father. I half expected him to start handing out cigars (chocolate, of course).

I’ve never been a fan of rodents and never had a pet, even as a kid. No dog named Skip, no Felix the cat. I’m just not a fan of fur and slobber.

That’s not to say my siblings didn’t have pets. My younger brother David had loads of them, some store-bought, others found in the back yard, and a goldfish that I won when I tossed a Ping-Pong ball into a bowl of water at a school carnival. I gave the fish to David, and he named him Chomper.

Chomper lived for several years, well beyond the normal life span of a goldfish. Chomper had been around so long that he became part of the family. So when he did die, he deserved more than a flush down the toilet.

I helped my brother bury Chomper in his shoebox casket in some dirt along the side of our house. I was somewhat sad.

David had another pet, a hamster that didn’t make it long enough to get a name. David brought the hamster home from the store, filled the bottom of the cage with wood chips and put a wheel inside. Then he let the hamster loose in the cage. The hamster hopped on the wheel and never got off. The next morning he lay dead, still on the wheel.

David and I joined my dad, who was carrying the dead hamster in the Chinese takeout box in which he took him home, on the trip to Kmart to ask for a replacement.

Julie had dogs when she was young but never considered bringing one into our home, understanding my aversion to animals. Thomas and his brother, Eric, have put the pressure on from time to time for a dog. Not going to happen.

On Monday morning, I helped Thomas carry Marmalade’s cage back into the classroom. Thomas’ classmates were all happy to see their pet.

Before leaving, I washed my hands in a sink by the doorway.

I didn’t think of Marmalade again until Julie said the other night that the guinea pig had passed on. He had died in his sleep, the class was told.

“Some of the kids were really crying,” Thomas said, turning back to “Monday Night Football” on the TV.

I felt sad, like I did when my brother and I buried Chomper.

I hear the class has another guinea pig, Eugene. I think we can make room for another house guest when it’s our turn.