The Perils in Owning Pets

We don’t really ‘own’ our pets, but they can come to own us.

Thanks to dogs, I’ve heard intimate details about their human families. All I have to do on morning walks is make a comment about a neighbor’s canine companion. Channeling through Dog has become a gateway for authentic, human expression.

Yesterday I spotted a massive beast, straining wildly at his leash, attempting to chase a squirrel. It never works, yet they persist. This says something about dogs. I laughed when passing, “I see your dog is taking you for a walk.” The petite owner’s shoulder was on the way to being dislocated, but it turned out she preferred that option, to the terrors in her home.

“This is my second sanity walk today. At this point, I’d choose dismemberment over home schooling my three teens while working at home. Going crazy, aren’t we boy!?” Boy wags tail enthusiastically, almost knocking me down.

Growing up in a family with 11 children can offer an unusual assortment in the pet department. We had the requisite dog and cats, but we all petitioned for our personal pet and ended up with a family zoo.

Our house deserved a case study. Canaries bursting forth in song, meows lacking harmony with barks, not to mention out of control humans and stealthy creatures in cages.

I was 8 years old when I ran inside for a snack one summer afternoon. The phone rang. My mom picked it up and flinched at the megaphone voice of our local, Animal Control Officer. They had developed a ‘relationship’ from three previous calls.

“Mrs. R. you have an animal on the loose…again.”

“Oh no, which kid is it this time?” Mom had an eccentric personality. You never knew what was going to fly out of her mouth.

“This one jumps like a deer, runs faster than greased lightning and howls like a wolf.”

“That would be my first born. I’ll send #8 out to corral him.”

She hung up with a grim look. “Go find that damn dog. We have to get him a new home.”

Terry, the most hyper Terrier on the planet, was dispatched to a working farm. The owners were thrilled by his ability to deftly nip the heels of straying cows.

His absence opened the door to a new avalanche of pet requests however. We shortly acquired a humongous white rat, with an obscenely long tail for instance. Our home environment became feral itself, with it’s overspill of creatures, both domestic and wild.

We found a baby sparrow, fallen from the nest. We devotedly fed it with an eye dropper and it thrived under our attention. As soon as it could fly we released it outdoors, but it had imprinted on us and became one of the family. It was allowed indoors whenever it tapped on the kitchen window.

It loved to perch on our shoulders and nestle in the hollows of our necks. We were so enchanted with it’s taming we didn’t even mind it’s watery turds dropping on our shirts and splatting on the floor. Sparrow stayed with us all summer and even returned home the next two springs!

We also had two cats that lived forever. Smokey turned into a fossilized specter on the window sill after he turned 22. I had to gently jostle him to make sure he was still breathing. Mother chopped up organ meats for Jessie and Smokey. Every time she started cutting up raw kidneys and hearts, they worshipped at her feet with anticipation.

Those two also spent a lot of time parked in front of a large bird cage, hosting singing canaries. Their tails swished excitedly on the floor while avidly tracking flight movement. It wasn’t enough to have one singer. Mother bought a chirpy little female and our boy jumped her bones the instant she was placed in the cage. Nesting material and food was supplied. Babies arrived in due time. Not just one batch, but a series. It was a household theme. Cheaper by the dozen, right? Not.

I thought the hatchlings would emerge with compromised nervous systems. Every time the cats thought they could get away with it, they stuck their paws between the bars at the bottom level of the tall cage. Mysteriously, it didn’t seem to upset the birds. The male continued trilling away, especially when hearing classical or folk music.

A large chrysalis arrived that summer too. Someone found it on the ground and it ended up clinging to our kitchen wall. It bothered me immensely and I pleaded for it’s removal, to no avail. I even resorted to reading mother’s little ditty she had typed out to inspire dish duty. Anything would do, as long as I could ignore the ‘thing’ on the wall. It read:

Thank God for dirty dishes, they have a tale to tell.

While other folk go hungry, we’re eating very well.

With home and health and happiness, we shouldn’t want to fuss.

For by this stack of evidence God’s very good to us.

See how desperate an 8 year old, facing a mound of dirty dishes, can get when outdoor creatures come inside. The chrysalis eventually birthed a large, dark chocolate moth which dried off and flew out an open window. Small mercies.

That fall, when I returned to school, our classroom had five baby chicks and we all took turns taking them home for one night. Poor things. All week long I prayed for my name to be called on Friday. I changed my bedtime prayer to ‘Now I lay me down to sleep, Friday better be my day for Cheep’.

I knew there was a God when Friday rolled around and I had Cheep for the weekend. Glory be. I wouldn’t let my brothers touch her without my supervision and even carried her to the bathroom with me. Such sacrifices.

Various garden snakes were dropped down shirts, indoors and out. We lived in the desert, so they were readily available for an unpleasant surprise. Wimpy behavior was not tolerated in our house. If someone screamed because a snake ended up in their shirt or pants, my parents would say “Get over it, they’re harmless” and the offender would get off with a warning.

Our house became a pet depository when siblings left and acquired their own pets, which they couldn’t care for later. In came a Golden Retriever and another cat. Parents, your children may leave the nest, but their pets might become yours.

I protested mightily however, when one of my brothers begged for an ant farm. I had an unpleasant history with ants and definitely didn’t want a reminder via ant farm. I had no clout and bro ended up with a palatial, glass walled farm, with a hefty population of ants scurrying about inside.

My brothers had conscripted me to shave the flammable heads off wooden Diamond matches. They packed the powder in aluminum foil, added a fuse, pushed it deep into ant mounds and struck a match. Kaboom! Ants flew, scurrying about in panic and confusion. I thought it was mean and stopped, but was left with an ominous feeling I would later come to name — ANT KARMA.

Everywhere I go, ants follow. I guess it’s nice to have a following, but I’ll pass on ant fans. I traveled a lot and slept outdoors frequently. I’d open my pack and there they were, red, black, brown, all sizes, rummaging around in my goods. No one else had ants, just me. I had a case of ant privilege.

Once, I rented a small house in a village in Brazil. One afternoon I heard shouting outside. Ants were coming! These were fire ants and they would invade an entire home, creating a disaster zone in their wake. Everyone rushed to collect wood ash and circled their house with it. It was the only preventive that could alter fire ants path. I did the same and watched the wave arrive, standing inside the circle of ash. It worked!

Ants have been a lifelong issue however. We built a house on an ant hill, although we were clueless at the time. Our hill hosted a sturdy collective and they ended up climbing three floors to our kitchen to say hello. I tried natural remedies at first, but ended up with Terminix. The informed worker offered ant education.

“Never squish an ant. That’s the biggest mistake people make when they’re trying to get rid of them. It distresses the ant and releases a wave of pheromones, sending out an alarm to the colony. You end up with twice the amount.”

I shared a bit of my history which brought forth a whistle of admiration, not my goal. “Is it possible for a human to carry ant pheromones?”

“I’ve never heard of that before, but there’s always a first. Sounds like you might need some therapy.”

“You think I haven’t tried? It’s impossible to find a specialist dealing with ant trauma.”

“Well, until you can get some help, vacuum them up or spray them with water and wipe, no squishing.”

I find dogs to be lovely companions but way too tame for my tastes. They slobber and drool over their people without the least bit of discernment. I’ll take a snobbish cat with refined sensibilities any day. I had however, never fallen deeply in love with a cat before Gus, featured above.

We had a struggle transporting him to the Vet to be neutered. When I picked him up afterward, I noticed a scratch on my Vet’s arm.

“Is that scratch from Gus?”

“Your Gus is a special case. The entire staff thinks he’s one of the most handsome dudes we’ve ever seen. He earned his title today.”

She showed me his chart. Someone had written FEISTY in red caps at the top.

“He had a feral mom.” We all know about owner excuses.

“Which one, human or cat?” the vet inquired.

“Both” I answered.

“That’s a good match. Happy trails ahead,” she grinned.

Gus was growling in his new, Cadillac cat carrier. Only the best for my boy.

“Get me out of this hell hole woman, or more than a scratch is on the way.”

A week later I called in to their office.

“Is it normal for a newly neutered male to hide behind corners and attack my ankles when passing by?”

“I think that’s normal for Gus. If he doesn’t get over it soon call back, but it could be a lifetime affliction.” I heard snickers and a hoot of laughter in the background.

He recovered from his insult, but never tamed. Sometimes he would push open our bedroom door in the middle of the night, leap on the bed and stalk me, his turquoise eyes glowing in the dark. I’d throw the covers over my head before he could pounce.

Whenever we traveled to our cabin, I’d spot him in the meadow on moonlit nights, merrily tossing voles into the air. Cat heaven. When it was time to leave, we kept the door shut so he couldn’t escape. Invariably, he would find a moment to make a dash and we’d be scrambling after him, not wanting to miss the ferry. He would dart under the cabin and hover in middle ground, daring me to enter large spider territory. I clenched my jaw and entered his domain, discovering his hefty stash of dead voles.

I was motivated to write this cautionary tale, as various viruses continue sweeping our exhausted planet and move people to do strange things. Friends, never before interested in pets, are acquiring them left and right. I understand you may be lonely, fed up, needing distraction or want something, anything to love and be loved by.

This doesn’t mean you have to buy a tarantula like someone I know. He takes it out and plays with it, letting it crawl on his arm. I suggested he head for the Amazon where they’re as big as dinner plates, but the jungle is burning too.

No ant farms please. They should not have been created.

Even if you stick to common, domesticated pet ground, be prepared for the unexpected regarding the character and personality of your pets. As my vet so wisely stated, a happy match is the aim.

Future pets await their humans but fair warning. They can end up owning your souls, as you adore and forgive their dastardly deeds. Lastly, for good measure, Gus was the most handsome and wondrous Lion Poser ever. I will always miss his scrapper, wild butt. Meow!