No, they're in love with my husband.
This is Strawberry (the one on the left), and this is Boo (the black one -- no, she doesn't really have white spots on her face, that's just the sunlight).
And this is the attractive home my husband designed and built for them at the back of our dining room, part of an elaborate scheme to avoid having to clean their cage more than once a year:
Really, I could understand them being pleased just with their living arrangements, but the hero-worship has gone well beyond that stage.
When they were smaller, the sound of the refrigerator door opening, especially followed by a suggestive crinkling of plastic, sent them into little guinea pig ecstasies. Obviously they had learned to associate this sound with being given a carrot, and since it was usually my husband who was so generous with them, they got even more worked up when they could tell he was the one opening the fridge. In any case, we would be treated to a shrill chorus of vweet vweet vweet vweet VWEET! until someone (again, usually my husband) took pity and indulged them.
Tonight, however, all my husband had to do was walk in the door and speak a couple of words -- no fridge, no plastic, not even the slightest whiff of carrots -- and the guinea pigs went nuts. They ran up and down the length of their cage and squeed like a couple of fat, furry fangirls, because ooh it was Daddy and now we'll get treats!
And, of course, my husband smiled indulgently, said, "Yes, girls," and gave them each a piece of lettuce.
I could be jealous, you know.