WEEK begins badly when a routine trip out to feed Honey, the sole survivor of the guinea pigs, reveals an empty cage and run.

I flap about for an hour searching garden and adjacent fields desperate to pick up a scent before daughter returns from school.

Try the softly softly approach with her, saying that Honey has probably gone in search of adventure but son is more direct: "Well it’s obvious the fox has had her."

Much wailing follows and we have a quiet word in son’s ear about how to be diplomatic.

On daughter’s insistence a sign is erected in the front garden calling all passers-by to keep an eye out for a honey-coloured guinea pig. It seems to comfort daughter that she is doing something.

I feel surprisingly choked up about the whole affair. I was, after all, the one who did the bulk of the feeding and petting over the last four years.

I sense the end of an era. The guinea pigs have been the perfect pets for an allotment holder. Who will eat the tops of my carrots and the dandelion leaves now?

Son is keen that we replace the hutch with a chicken house but in light of his fox theory this could be asking for trouble.

A few days later and daughter is still sad but quite keen to remind me that her birthday approaches.

Directs me to a page on the internet about house rabbits. "They teach themselves to poo in litter boxes and you can take them for walks," she says.

I put an end to this discussion and tell her to focus her animal love on her hamster.

I might even get her a much-longed for hamster lead (yes, such a thing really does exist) for her birthday.