Pets

I grew up with many pets.  As a kid, being around animals was completely familiar – all kinds of animals.  We had dogs, cats, birds, hamsters, snakes, lizards, and iguanas, just to name a few.  There were two factors that went into the various pets that became a part of our family:  first, my sisters and I were pet lovers.  In looking back, however, I must add that we were pet lovers who did not treat our pets, well, “normally.” 

Ozzie, a dog that my parents bought in ’87 when the Cardinals clinched the pennant, was like a little sister to me.   The problem was that Ozzie was a guy.  Regardless, I dressed him up in tutus and even put bows in his hair.  I loved that dog, but as an elementary school girl, I was slightly disturbed that my parents would bring home a boy, so I tried to ignore what was glaringly obvious.  I even made Ozzie a pink canopy bed and would, at times, call him, “Ozzette.”   Poor guy. 

Whitten the Kitten.  Erin, my younger sister, will argue tooth and nail that was the best cat ever.  He (she?  I really have no idea) wasn’t.  That cat was demon-possessed.  That cat hissed at me every single time I got near him (her?).  That cat hated everyone and everything…..except for Erin, and this was something that I will never understand, seeing that my sister tortured that animal. 

Erin put Whitten in the freezer.  Why not, right?  “I just wanted to see what would happen,” she said.  Erin hid that dumb cat in cabinets, only for us to open them and experience Whitten’s demon hissing.  Erin threw Whitten into the pond in our back yard.  Why?  “I just wanted to see what would happen,” she said.  Of course. 

 Erin would play basketball with Whitten.  How?  I don’t know.  Somehow they had this game and Erin claims to this day that he (she?) was so good at basketball.  In fact, just recently Erin and I went down memory lane, reminicing about Whitten and his (her?) basketball skills, and Erin sentimentally exclaimed, “Oh, sweet Whitty….” 

Oh brother.  Demon possessed is what that cat was.  That cat hissed, scratched, bit, and hid from everyone…..except Erin.  Truly remarkable. 

We had birds that ate themselves to death.  While my dad had a special affection for the many….many….birds we had over the years.  He failed to ask directions on how to care for them.  So, when we left for vacation for a week, dad left the bird with a weeks worth of food in his (her?) cage.  We didn’t want him to starve, right?  I mean what family wants to come home to a starved, dead bird?  A food exploded bird, on the other hand, was slightly traumatic for a child to see, in case that was in question. 

My dad was also certain that he could clip a birds wings by himself.  Easy enough, right?  I remember him saying, “It’s like giving a bird a trim.”  I was there for this experience as well.  I remember very distinctly, though, that my mother was not because for an hour after the attempted clipping, my dad was frantically trying to clean up all the blood that covered our floors and walls while the bird flew around the house totally out of control.  A blood covered kitchen from a poor innocent bird was also slightly traumatic for a child to see, also in case that was in question. 

I had hamsters.  I remember the day I brought the hamsters home. It was the same day that the pet store owner told us to not put the hamsters in the same cage.  It was also the same day that my parents put the hamsters in the same cage.  I was so excited about those little rodents.  I kept them in my room and named one Katie and the other Ellie, named after my fourth-grade best friend (although looking back, I don’t think they were both girls.  They were older; perhaps the opposite sex?  These are the things that apparently my family did not concern themselves with). 

 The next morning, after bringing home Katie and Ellie, I remember going to their cage to check on them before school.  Here’s what I found:  Ellie had essentially bit off the head of Katie.  The pet store owner told us she had never seen anything like it.  Yep.  Neither had I.  And, in case it was in question, seeing the severed head of a beloved hamsters was definitely traumatic for a child. 

But there is yet another another factor that went into the various pets that we had in our household.  My parents could not say “no,” when it came to pets.   And even though we had disaster after disaster with various pets, we kept asking for more. Thus Natasha, our snake who ate frozen mice and fish and who was strong enough to push the lid of his (her? it’s?) cage open.  There were many times that as children we were told, “Do not tell the company that the snake is loose.  Do you understand?” 

We also had chameleons and Iguanas (why the heck did we have an Iguana?) and other various, less “typically” pets.  They looked interesting to us as kids, we asked, and my parents got.  It was a done deal almost every time. 

Now I have kids.  And a husband.  And we started out with no pets.  The problem, however, is that I have carried with me all these years two *hereditary* family factors when it comes to pets. 

So, when Ella was born, I just felt as if something was missing in her life.  She needed a pet.  My husband, though, did not feel the same way.  He simply did not understand my sense of urgency for my poor baby who lacked a pet in her life. 

I bought my sixth month old a hermit crab.  And, typical to my families history, I let that poor crab die of thirst.  I blame my terrible mishap on being busy with a new baby.  You can only imagine the look I got from my husband.

 I promised him no more pets…..for the time being. 

But then when I had two kids, and I brought them into the pet store to see the dogs, and they saw the gerbils.  They promised to take care of the gerbils.  They promised to feed them, love them, and play with them.  I couldn’t say no.  It’s hereditary. 

So, when my husband came home from work that day, I simply told him that we had a new addition.  He looked panicked.  He knew what I was capable of when it came to pets.  I assured him that we would be responsible for these new members of our family.  And besides,” look at how much the kids love them!”  While I looked over at the scene and saw Norman Rockwell, my husband saw two rodents and two young, irresponsible kids who would out the gerbils to have free reign of our house in a matter of hours. 

They were gone within twenty-four.  For days we found “clues” of where they had been, but couldn’t find them.  The day they were finally caught (by me, for the record), they became a nemesis.  The wheel kept me up, the smell drove me crazy, and I was suddenly seeing bits of Whitten in their personality.

My husband said this was all due to the fact that they missed their freedom.   “Wouldn’t you,” he asked,  “if you were cooped up in that smelly cage?”  He had a point.  For most of their existence, all they knew was the vast terrain of our house.  So, my husband set them free into the forest.  Yes, he actually did that.  And yes, I still swear I see the ghosts of those rodents coming back to haunt us when I sit in the back yard. 

I promised him no more pets…..for the time being.

But then I had three kids, and I brought them into the pet store to see the dogs, and they saw the rats.  “Mom, the rats are discounted!”  Jrod was certain that would make all the difference in pushing me over the edge.  I can’t say it didn’t help. 

So, when my husband came home from a long day at work, I simply told him we had a new addition to the family.  He just shook his head and started listing off various animals that it could be.  A rat wasn’t on the list of animals that came to his mind.  Because of this, he was taken a bit off guard.  I told him the rat was discounted; it didn’t help him like it helped me. 

Not to worry. 

The kids promised to take care of the rat. They promised to feed it, love it, and play with him it. I couldn’t say no. It’s hereditary. 

I watched as Jrod began to “train” the rat using incentives such as “time on his pirate ship” if the rat did what he wanted.  I watched Lily squeeze the rat as she tried to catch it, and I sighed when Ella began holding the rat like a baby.  And all my childhood pet memories came rushing back. 

The rat needed a name. HER name is Fiona.  Fiona the rat.  And only a few times has “she” been referred to as a “he.” 

My husband promised me the rat would be loose several times within twenty-four hours.  It’s now been four days.  And she’s only escaped once.