The first pet I remember is my sister’s cat. Fluffy was a large (giant) orange male tabby that looked to my toddler eyes like a lion. His attitude toward me was nothing short of predator and prey. Fluffy was large and would only sit in feline grace with my sister Pat. I have no clue how he came to live in our family circle. The only human he truly tolerated was Pat. Fluffy often brought home odd bits of things he caught, tortured and then refused to eat. These hunting trophies were proudly laid at Pat’s feet or dropped in the midst of the family at inopportune times. Fluffy loved to hide on the front porch waiting for the odd stray dog (no size too large) to wander by. The cat’s posture would change and the expression on his face became gleeful like the smile on Lucifer in Disney’s Cinderella. With one fluid motion Fluffy would rise, spring, land on the back of the unsuspecting dog, and ride it out of the yard in best rodeo style; the dog howled with every step. When the neighborhood dogs learned to give our yard a wide berth, I was the target of choice. I absolutely would not play outside alone while we had Fluffy. I can’t remember how or when he died. Pat was the only one who grieved.
My next venture into animal relationship was a chameleon purchased at the Shrine Circus. Pat and I each had one. We named them and Pat loved to let hers crawl on her. We kept them in a goldfish bowl with multicolored flannel. I think I held mine once. I didn’t like the feel of its little clutching feet nor its odd-feeling skin. I helped feed them and watched them change colors. When they expired I believe I shed a tear or two.
As an older child (8 or 10) I was presented with four baby rabbits. Dad found them without a mother and brought them home to me. As helpless infants, they were sweet, warm, and liked to be carried in my skirt held out like a bowl or basket. As they grew, their true nature and wildness emerged; I learned that rabbits are just rodents with long ears and pom-pom tails. They bit and scratched and hissed (reminiscent of Fluffy). I cried when Dad took them to an Island on Lake Josephine to release them. I mourned them for about a week. Then my friends and I used their empty cage to contain the frogs we caught. We had learned frogs do not suvive glass jars left in the sun. I’m here to tell you they also do not survive a screen cage if there is no water. I didn’t consider the frogs as pets so considered them no big loss. I was sensitive enough to know we were not doing them a kindness by catching them so left that hobby for those who also like tearing the wings off flies.
I begged for a dog. I would take care of it. I would love it. It would love me. I would train it. Against the better judgment of my parents, I became the proud and happy owner of Pixie. She was a beautiful blond little dog who loved to play. She was part terrier and part beagle and part jackrabbit! She was not large; Pixie was smaller than a beagle but taller than a fox terrier. We could never have her outside without a leash as she would take off at a dead run and run as though her very life depended on it. Pixie could jump very high from a sitting position often jumping as high as Dad’s head (he was five feet and six inches tall). She loved nothing better than gloved hands to attack. It was impossible to put on a glove or a mitten without finding an otherwise docile dog hanging from a finger. She was also fickle! She soon traded me as pet-owner for my father. The minute Dad returned home from work, Pixie would trot adoringly at his heels. She sat in his lap (my former place) while he read the newspaper and when he went for his nap after dinner, she curled up beside him and slept. She survived being hit by a car with nothing more than signs of stiffness for a few days and lived with us until I was in my early teens. Pixie had to be put to sleep when her ears became seriously infected and nothing the vet tried would clear them up. Dad and I both missed her greatly. We never even considered replacing her.
When Dave and I started our life together, he was a dog handler for the military. He had a German Shepherd; they were trained to work together to guard. I don’t remember the dog’s name (Rusty?). When health issues made it impossible for Dave to continue to be a dog handler, he regretted having to say good-bye.
I insisted Helen should have the pets I never did. Our first venture was a dog named “Toro”. Helen named him. He was a mixed breed of solid-black, short hair; he was about the size of a Jack Russell. I heard him yipping one day and entered the living room to see an indignant Helen and a totally dejected Toro with front paws over his nose. I asked what was the matter. With all the control a three-year-old can muster, Helen replied “He bited me so I bited him!” I don’t believe he ever bit her again.
Toro was unable to face days alone while we were at work and soon perpetrated mischief that was not only startling but too difficult to allow. He unknitted an entire sweater I was making for Dave. We came home to find yarn wrapped around every conceivable chair leg and lamp stand. He knocked over a decorative decanter filled with blue water. Neighbors marveled at the delft-blue dog doo for days. We walked him only at night after he ate the box of Crayola Crayons. It was too distressing to try to explain the rainbow turds dropping. Fortunately we were able to find a couple who lived a quiet retired life so Toro would have company 24 hours a day. It was a love match.
Buttons was a very small, soft, silky, grey kitty with blue eyes and a meow that was more of a bellow like something in the African wild seriously wounded. Buttons knew what she wanted and expected it the minute she wanted it. One of the things she wanted was to sleep on the foot of our bed. If we penned her out, she bellowed. She learned to escape most any pen and claw her way up our bed where she then bit, scratched, clawed, and attacked Dave’s feet until he was ready to launch her missile style through the wall. He would pick her up, find a new way to pen her away from us and then we would listen to her bellow until . . . well, silence meant she was on her way back to our room and Dave’s feet. Trying to be a wonderful pet owner, I wanted Buttons’ feeding area meticulously clean. I washed everything and sprayed liberally with Lysol Disinfectant Spray. I poisoned her. Dave and I drove her to the vet where I explained my well-meaning efforts to keep her germ free. The vet understood. He said he thought he could save her, but at a price cost exorbitant for us. We signed Buttons over to him and left sadder but wiser pet owners.
Kerri and Cali came next. An orange male cat and his nefarious partner Cali a little Calico female. Who in their right mind buys a male and female set of any animal???? Fortunately the fact that orange males and calico females are often sterile proved true for us. That did not stop them from wanting to mate, trying to mate, and sending earth shattering sexual howls through the house several times a year. Neutering was not too highly touted at that time, so we lived with them until Marc was born. Unable to keep them from climbing into the crib or playpen with Marc made another adoption plan necessary. The promise to Helen that we would find a pet that was compatible with our lives but not the size of the horse she cherished in her dreams, made her content to visit the cats a couple times after their move and get on with life.
Barron, a large part German Shepherd thought he was a lap dog (probably because I would not refrain from carrying him around as a puppy). He thought (no he knew) he belonged on someone’s lap. He would confuse our guests by gently placing a paw on their knee. He would smile and tip his head to the side. They would, of course, pet the nice doggy. A second paw would gently appear on their other knee. One word from them (even “no” or “down”) would bring the rest of the dog fully into their lap. Barron would sit smiling down on them, tail wagging ever so slowly back and forth. We would apologize and take him away. He also had an insatiable appetite for chewing - anything. He ate: shoes, dog toys, socks, my pillow, my coat, the side of the toy chest, our back door, and much, much more. Our mobile home park at that time had strict rules for dogs. One of those rules would be they must be leashed at all times. Any dog found wandering the park would be held at the office for 24 hours then turned over to animal control. Retrieving a pet cost the owner $5.00. Barron became an escape artist to rival Buttons. Unerringly he would slither out of doors, slip the collar and leash, and even get out of his collar while being walked. Once free, he would look over his shoulder at us and race like the wind straight to the mobile home park office and scratch at the door to be let in. Dave was positive the park had trained him. Barron, too eventually went to a farm where he probably ate one barn, half a house, and who knows how many outbuildings!
After Barron, we had Whiskers, a Standard Schnauzer, and Bozo, a Salt and Pepper Miniature Schnauzer. Both determined temperaments with personality to spare. Bozo got his name when he was sneaking behind Dave to get some bits of turkey falling out of a sandwich. I tried to warn Dave he was about to trip on a dog. I said, “Watch out you’re going to step on . . . Bozo, there!” The name stuck. Whiskers was to be our show dog, a hobby for Dave and me. He didn’t like shows, periodically just stopped eating and lost weight, acted like the world had caused him great injury and decided I was the only human in the world he liked. He consistently chased one neighbor of ours who said she had great affinity for Captain Hook with his crocodile. He also loved to wait for Marc (very young then) to enter the bathroom. When Marc was ready to leave, Whiskers would park himself across the door and snarl. No amount of dog obedience work changed that. Eventually he was allowed to be off leash only when he was in his kennel. The rest of the time he and I were joined at opposite ends of the leash. There were times I wanted to put him down for damaged personality. However, I wondered where else can one receive such unconditional love but God or a pet?
Liebchen was an all black Miniature Schnauzer. He loved to fetch, play, sit up, and dance! He liked people and loved to greet anyone going by our home. He would sit in my lap for hours and sleep at the foot of our bed. He lived to be 21 human years and I miss him still. He did have one quirk that was unnerving. (Could we possibly own a pet that did not?) When people were passing our home, he liked to stand on his hind legs and walk the perimeter of our yard. In daylight it was startling and funny. To someone going by with only the moon or the streetlights to illuminate his antics, he looked eerily like one of the flying monkeys from The Wizard of Oz. All we needed was the “ohhhhhh, eeeeeee, oooooh” of the soundtrack playing and people would have started spinning and muttering “There’s no place like home!” Sometimes, even while walking him on a leash he would greet oncoming walkers strutting his stuff. Oh, I almost forgot. He also hated to be left alone. The doors would be closed, also the windows, and he would hear the car motor turn over and he would start. Screaming as though an ax murder was being committed, he was letting us know we were forgetting to take him along. Neighbors said he stopped as soon as the car drove away, but the first few times it occurred, we dashed back into the house to find him sitting at the door smiling at us. Better left forgotten is the fact that there was one particular friend, and only this particular friend, he lifted his leg to every time she visited. Yes, after the second time we started putting him in his kennel for her.
Helen had a tiny black cat named Prince. He never grew bigger than about three-week old kitten stage. There was no place to put him he could not escape. During meals our pets were kept away from the table, usually. Prince was so small he would squeeze out under a door, flying down our long hallway like the little cartoon character that was so speedy and always said, “Arriba! Arriba!” He would launch himself into the air, spring off Dave’s thigh onto the table, grab something from Dave’s plate and be gone before anyone could grab him. He always moved at top speed and was a curiosity to the visitors we had. He had a heart attack and died in Helen’s arms. She brought Prince to Dave with tears streaming down her face and said, “Daddy, Prince is dead.” Dave tried to comfort her by saying maybe not. She hugged him hard and said, “His heart was beating so fast and then it stopped.” I think that was a strong picture of how we run to God when we are grieving.
One of Helen’s other cats was Snow, a lovely white kitty who loved to comfort Helen when she was sad. We always thought she was part Siamese. A certain product was sold for pets with fleas. A reputable company made and marketed it. Dave and I were away from home and returned to find Helen sobbing and cradling Snow who was drooling and lethargic. The flea spray had poisoned the fleas and the cat! We took her to an emergency veterinarian office. There they said they had been tracking other cases after exposure to the same product.
They asked if we would permit them to document her treatment and open those documents to a nation-wide television program where the staff was also aware of the harshness of the product and were planning a future exposé of it. Snow survived but her kidneys were weakened. She lived a long time even for a healthy cat. She remained sweet and unchanged. The manufacturer sent us a check paying full veterinary bills as long as we agreed to sign a document we would not sue. Of course, there was a full disclaimer about the product. Shortly after that, the television did warn patrons and the product was removed from store shelves.
During Snow’s recovery I found a present to give Helen to make her feel better. It was a coffee mug. On it was a picture of a child, a little girl, who reminded me of toddler Helen. With the pretty child who was wearing a red flannel nightgown was a little white kitty tugging on the hem of the gown. I thought it was so like Helen and Snow. I gave the cup to Helen who promptly burst into tears. Both the child and the kitten were angels complete with wings and halos but I hadn’t noticed. Sometimes as a parent I just didn’t (make that don’t) get it right!
Marc also had his share of cats. One of them was Bozo in honor of the first canine Bozo. An orange tabby, Bozo spent most of the night licking the back of Marc’s head. He would wake in the morning with the hairs on the back of his head standing straight in the air and fanned out like a grouse. We never figured out why Bozo was so determined to groom Marc.
Marc loved to tease Duchess. Duchess was a grey tabby. She had so much personality. If I went in to make Helen’s bed and Duchess did not want to be disturbed, she would growl or hiss and I would back out and close the door. Since Fluffy, I have always had a fine sense of fear when a cat is telling you to “back off”. Marc liked to tease Duchess. He would hold her in his arms and blow on her. She would shake her head and bat at his nose or lips with her paw. One day she was tiring of the game but Marc wasn’t. Finally, thoroughly fed up, Duchess stood up in Marc’s arms and grabbed Marc’s ears with her paws. Extending her claws just far enough to ensure Marc would not move his head she began rapid-fire chewing on his nose! It was one of the funniest things ever. It makes me laugh whenever I remember it.
Dogs and cats, cats and dogs, turtles, fish, a hedgehog, and I think even a hamster or two spent time bringing us love, laughter, and tears. It is never easy for children to come to grips with the mortality of their pets. I don’t know that Dave and I were good about helping them through. We had our share of funerals. Marc’s girls have a dog named Conner. Helen has two cats named Calamity Jayne and Annie Oakley who quickly figured out Kevin is a sucker who will hand out treats without much begging.
After Liebchen, I thought I would not ever want another dog. About two years after his demise, I did some studying and decided the dog for me would be a L’hasa Apso. I should have studied harder. I purchased a little ball of fluff and named her Nutmeg. She was so charmingly sweet, and docile, and willing to please. She was also close to death! Once we had her several ailments cured, she became a terror who thinks she is the alpha dog in the family.
My hopes for her were that she would love walking with me, going in the car with me to visit the girls and Conner, be my playmate when Dave doesn’t want to be out in the snow with me. She gets car sick. I don’t mean she rides for awhile and then gives a warning. The minute she hears the motor start, body fluids fly out of every orifice in her small body causing an odor to nearly cause the same thing from anyone in the car with her. She walks well for a while, but when she is through enjoying our walk, she sits or lies down and goes for a drag. She barks at everything even though she knows the command to stop. In her mind, she gets the last word so she will keep barking softer and softer until she is at just barely a whisper. She has a sensitive stomach so I have to maintain strict attention to the floors or she will find a minute crumb and have stomach problems for days. She does like to be groomed which is good because that is a never-ending monotonous process that takes combs, brushes, detanglers and scissors. Nutmeg fears storms, unusual noises, and her own reflection in the fireplace doors. Any of the three will send her under my chair in a fit of shakes. It is her opinion birds do not belong in our yard, our neighbors yard, or in the swamp a block away.
At bed time, as soon as Dave uses the remote to switch off the television, Nutmeg hops from her chair, runs to the office and puts herself in her kennel. When Dave goes to shut the door she growls at him. Several times she has figured out how to open her own kennel. On those rare occasions, she has hopped up on the foot of our bed and climbed on Dave’s hip to stand and peer down into his face. The pose is similar to Snoopy playing vulture on top of his dog house. That is never met with pleasure! When our next door neighbors “dog sit” for us, we return to find out she has been a model dog. She doesn’t bark. They put a towel on their antique fainting couch and the princess puppy gets to watch the people going by on the street. We have threatened to hide her in their motor home when they leave on their snow bird travels each fall. The problem is when they start the motor, even the motor home would not be large enough to hold that smell!
No comments:
Post a Comment