Kimie Smothermon houses up to 400 abandoned guinea pigs at any given time in a converted office space north of Boston, fielding surrender requests from as far as Illinois, Texas, and New York.
The Guinea Pig Sanctuary in Salisbury, Massachusetts, sits about 40 miles north of Boston in a cramped, converted office space where cages stack from floor to ceiling. On any given day, 350 to 400 guinea pigs live there, surrendered by owners who can no longer care for them, shipped in from states across the country, and tended by a small crew of volunteers who clip nails, clean enclosures, and try to find the animals new homes.
Smothermon runs the operation almost single-handedly, with only a handful of days off per year. She is not a hobbyist. She is not running a business. She is running one of a handful of nonprofit rescues in the United States devoted solely to guinea pigs, and the story of how she got here involves loss, fire, and a grandson's unlikely bond with a small, skittish rodent.
The sanctuary exists because of Alex, Smothermon's grandson. As a child, Alex fell into a fire and suffered health problems that made him avoid most animals for years. When he turned 12, he discovered guinea pigs were safe for him to handle. He brought one home. That single animal opened a door Smothermon never expected to walk through.
Word spread. People started calling. Owners who couldn't keep their guinea pigs began showing up. The family ran the rescue out of their home in New Hampshire, absorbing more animals as demand grew. Guinea pigs, originally from South America, domesticated around 5,000 B.C., and now bred into 13 distinct varieties, are popular starter pets. They measure eight to ten inches long, require daily feeding and social interaction, and outlast the attention span of many owners.
Then, in 2019, a fire destroyed the family's New Hampshire home. Smothermon's other grandson died in the blaze, along with two dogs and dozens of guinea pigs. The loss sent Smothermon into a depression.
But the animals kept coming. Even while the family lived in a hotel searching for a new home, people continued dropping off guinea pigs that needed help. Smothermon eventually relocated to Massachusetts and rebuilt the sanctuary in Salisbury.
The demand has not slowed. The Associated Press reported that Smothermon recently fielded intake requests for 11 guinea pigs from Illinois, seven from Texas, and 97 from New York, with nearly half of the New York group expected to have babies. The numbers are staggering for a single small facility.
Smothermon does not turn people away. Earlier this year, an older woman walked in within minutes of the sanctuary opening, carrying two cages. Her husband had fallen ill, and she could no longer care for her pets and her spouse at the same time. Smothermon hugged her and waived the usual surrender fee.
She described the moment plainly:
"I tell people, just bring them here. If that's what you need to do, I'll take on the responsibility."
That instinct, take the animal, ask questions later, defines the operation. The sanctuary also boards guinea pigs when owners travel, and adoption coordinator Brittany Provencale works to rehome animals when possible. Volunteer Brianna MacIntyre handles tasks like nail clipping while Smothermon feeds the animals corn husks.
Volunteer Janet Woodman, who helps at the nonprofit, sees the guinea pigs as more than abandoned pets.
"They're very sensitive animals. I personally think they are probably the best therapy animal next to a horse."
Smothermon is less sentimental about her own role. She acknowledged the toll the work takes, and she did not pretend the grind is glamorous or sustainable.
"If I could figure out how to get out of this at this point, I probably would. But I do believe that to a certain extent, I probably wouldn't get out of bed if I didn't have this."
She framed the daily obligation in blunt terms:
"If I don't get up, they don't eat and they can die. So even though it's not a choice, I have to."
Alex's dream, that the sanctuary would continue, still drives her. The 2019 fire took her grandson, her home, and dozens of animals. It did not take the mission. People across the country still call, still show up with cages, still need someone willing to say yes when nobody else will.
In a culture that treats pets as disposable when they become inconvenient, one woman in a cramped office north of Boston keeps answering the phone.
