Parenting And Pets

When I was a child, my siblings and I had countless beloved pets. The first one that was all mine was a guinea pig named Speedy, who came to a tragic end in the blistering San Bernardino heat, due to a blanket accidentally left on his backyard cage all day. Years later, my mother confessed that she blamed herself and spent years feeling terrible for letting it happen. I was probably only 6 or 7 at the time, so I can imagine how she felt -- but I'm getting ahead of myself...

There was the scrappy outdoor cat named Omar (whom I used to sneak into my bedroom window at night to sleep, draped across my neck). 

Later came Chelsea, the amazing stunt cat. She was an excellent actor. We'd play "Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom" -- I'd make the sound of a tranquilizer gun, she'd fall to the ground, and I'd hover over her while pretending to check her vitals and tag her ear for tracking. I’d narrate the action in Marlin Perkins’ funny southernish accent: “Watch those claws -- they can be dangerous.” As her imaginary sedative wore off, she'd regain consciousness and dart away. 

My sister’s dog Rinda would play the Big Bad Wolf. On cue, she would dash across the room and savagely attack my screaming Raggedy Ann doll (okay, it was really me doing the screaming, but Rinda and I still loved it). 

I also enjoyed a true friendship with my pony, Foxy Roxy. We spent many quiet warm summer evenings together in her box stall behind our house on the Palos Verdes Peninsula, listening to the sound of horses munching hay in the connecting stalls, while the strange wailing cries of peacocks echoed through the canyon outside our barn. By day, I'd ride her for hours, either with friends or alone. I was a feral child, barefooted and helmet-less, and she was my wild little pony, often without a saddle or bridle, as we galloped up and down canyon hills and bridle paths. I still wonder what on earth my parents were thinking... We'd stop on the trails to munch wild blackberries and solve the world's problems together.

There were herds of other four-legged childhood companions in and around my childhood homes, each unique and memorable, and all who eventually and inevitably died from old age, accidents, or illnesses. Each loss would leave us kids with puffy, wet faces, and that genuine yet fleeting grief with which children are mercifully endowed.

My dear, strong and capable father used to take our deceased pets to a resting place he called "Pelican Hill." He'd wrap the limp and lifeless kitty (or other unfortunate furry casualty) in a towel and gently carry it to the car. We would stand in the driveway, weeping and waving goodbye as he drove off to a place we never saw but imagined to be a beautiful grassy knoll overlooking an ocean somewhere. I would picture the sun quietly setting as my father wiped a sweaty brow and tapped the last pieces of soil onto the top of the grave he had dug himself.

Decades later, as an adult, I was at dinner one night with my folks. The subject had come up somehow, and I said to my dad, "You know, I'll bet Pelican Hill was just a landfill somewhere -- you probably just slowed down and chucked the dead cat out the window, didn't you?" Dad never actually admitted it, but his hysterical laughter that went on for far too long confirmed my suspicions.

So now, as a mom with my own daughters, I find myself in quite a different state of mind regarding our furry family members. 

When my future stepdaughter Becky was really, really young (maybe 4?), we found a cat in the Pennysaver for Christmas. We had not been able to find any kittens locally, so we had to drive to some run-down hovel in south-central L.A., which was filled with filthy cats. The woman selling the cat apologized for her completely trashed house, claiming that they were "remodeling". Before we left with a half-grown kitten that looked less sickly than the other cats, she insisted on tying a yarn ribbon around his neck and blessing him with holy water from France. Brian and I had a good laugh on the way home about that "French Pope" who had blessed the water...

Well, at his initial vet check, Rajah ended up testing positive for kitty leukemia. Although he was not yet showing symptoms, the vet said he might live six months, six years... no one knew for sure. With heavy hearts, waited for our little time bomb to go off. He ended up living a couple of years, and months after his death we discovered that little Becky had blamed herself for making him sick. Sobbing, she confessed that she had petted an outdoor cat before touching Rajah without washing her hands, and she was sure that was why he had died. We explained that he was sick when we first got him, that she had nothing to do with it. I thanked God that Becky never asked why on earth Santa would give her a sick kitty for Christmas. 

At that point, I was only just beginning to realize that being on the "parent-end" of pet ownership was, well, just delightful...

We adopted two sister kitties from a reputable source a while later. Named Jasmine and Nala by Becky (after Disney princesses, naturally), our cats were quite dear to me; I raised them from kittens and carefully followed advice from books such as The Natural Cat, which taught me how to give “kitty kisses” to show that I loved them and that I would indeed return soon from the store. Aside from having the unpleasant responsibility of paying for vet visits and cleaning the litter box (my darling husband resolutely refused to go near it, except for during my pregnancy – doctor’s orders), I have enjoyed these kitties every bit as much as I had any childhood pet. Jasmine is, as I type, 20 years old, and she's still going pretty strong. Sure, we need to keep several litter boxes in the house -- she sometimes forgets and just squats wherever she pleases. And she's almost deaf. And she smells. But mostly, she's still pretty tolerable.

However, something strange began to happen to me once Jennifer came along. Shortly after arriving home from the hospital, my newborn baby lay peacefully in her little bassinet near the couch. Cautiously, Jasmine (the bolder of the cat sisters) peered over the edge, fascinated by the tiny chubby hand that was bobbing up and down, just high enough for her to see. Jasmine tentatively reached out a paw to touch Jennifer's little hand, and WHAM! Before I even realized what I was doing, I had grabbed that predatory beast by the scruff, plunged her into the kitchen sink, turned on the tap, and doused her with a surprise shower that kept her clear of anything baby-related for at least the next six months.

What had come over me? How could my precious companions become "those cats" in the twinkling of an eye? The answer, for me at least, was parenthood! With blinding swiftness, I developed the perspective that could never possibly be achieved by my childless neighbor, who prepared and hand-fed homemade meatloaf to her Shih Tzu, named (really) "Princess Minky of Redondo Beach". I was going through some photo albums not long after Jen was born, and I looked up at my sometimes-too-tolerant husband and asked, "Honey, why do I have all these pictures of, um, cats?" Brian threw up his hands in exasperation and cried, "This is what I've been saying!!!"

So now, as I reflect on a phone call I once had with our vet (when I actually heard myself say, "Look, I'm willing to sacrifice time off the end of this dog's life, as long as the medicine you give me keeps him from chewing his paws and bleeding all over my carpet now!"), I realize that the magical relationship I shared with my childhood pets has taken a back seat to the pressing realities of caring for a home and a human family. 

I must admit, however, that we have kept one important tradition alive. When Nala succumbed to heart disease at the age of 11 (Jennifer and I actually watched her die… isn’t parenting stressful enough without pets, for cryin’ out loud??), Brian tenderly carried her off to "Pelican Hill" while I held my daughter as she cried. I cried too. I really did.

And I even cried when the first dog I owned as an adult, Charlie (the paw-chewing one above), shuffled off his mortal coil.  In time, I even nearly forgot about the night I brought him to my friend Julia's house. I only discovered that he'd spent the entire evening gorging himself on tortoise poop after we got in the car to leave. It took weeks to rid my Accord of the smell of regurgitated tortoise poop. Okay, I lied. I never forgot it and never really forgave him.

And then along came Bingley. I most often refer to him as The Last Dog I'll Ever Own. His transgressions upon my tolerance are far too numerous to list here. I'll save that for another blog. But I'll just say that having that dog has really put the nail in the coffin of my enjoyment of pets.

And don't even get me started on the hermit crabs. That is also a story in itself.

I may get another cat (or two), eventually. And I really, really want two alpacas (that's a whole other story as well). But I'm sure I'll find reasons to regret that, too.