Once upon a time a friend came to visit my mother, bringing her a beautiful blooming African Violet as a gift.
"Let's take a walk down the street to see Shirley," suggested my mother. "We can bring her this plant." And they did.
Aside from being jaw-droppingly rude, the point of this story is that my mother refused to be responsible for even a single house plant, and got rid of it before it even hit the dining room table. God only knows how she handled a baby, since she found a house plant too much trouble. My mother was an addict, and all she really wanted to think about was getting her next drink.
Occasionally pets had been added to the household when I was young, but they usually lasted about as long as that plant.
My mother often spoke fondly about white rats she'd had as a child. Apparently she was allowed to keep many of them. I'm sure one of the maids had to feed and water the rats and change their cages, because caring for another living thing was not on my mother's list of abilities.
My mother claims that she wore the rats on her head like a crown (could this possibly be true?), and that she brought them to school and hid them in her desk (very likely).
Because of my mother's rats, I was allowed to have hamsters when I was little. They were stinky little things, but I adored them and let them run around my waist inside my shirt. The mother hamster had babies, and I came downstairs one morning and was casually informed that she had eaten her young. I was aghast. I had never heard anything so disturbing in my life. I have since learned that this is a sign of severe maternal stress and bad hamster care. But doesn't it figure I would get the Cannibal Mother Hamster?
The hamsters were either Houdini masters with their little paws, or perhaps someone accidentally on purpose left their cage door unlatched, because one by one they disappeared.
After the hamster debacle I was allowed to have two guinea pigs. My mother named them Lester and Lanin, after the society bandleader. (Years later I attended a debutante party where one of Lester Lanin's bands was actually playing. According to the New York Times, "Mothers would book him for coming-out parties as soon as their daughters were born.")
I liked Lester and Lanin because they wiggled their noses and squeaked. I don't think they were well cared for, either. For their food, my mother retrieved old, slimy lettuce that had been thrown out behind the A&P.
Lester and Lanin came with us to Rhode Island for the summer, and apparently my mother decided she was no longer going to deal with their cage. She got some flimsy pieces of cardboard and set them up on the concrete as an enclosure by the back door, then released Lester and Lanin into their new makeshift home outside.
By morning they had been savaged by the neighbor's dogs, their bloody corpses strewn around the yard. This caused something of an uproar in our small town, and my mother was angry at the neighbor who owned the dogs. But really - who leaves guinea pigs loose outside at night?
We also had a cat when I was little, but it must have been somewhat feral, because I don't remember enjoying or curling up with it. I'm sure it never went to the vet - that would have cost money. I know it pooped in my uncovered sandbox - a lot. My mother fed the cat raw hot dogs, glistening and pink, straight from the refrigerator. The cat also sometimes got canned cat food that smelled absolutely delicious to me. My mother was such a godawful cook that cat food seemed like a better option than anything she prepared - so I tried it. It was execrable. I can assure you it tastes nothing like it smells.
One day a man yelled to us from the street, "Is this your cat?" I wish someone had kept me from looking.
In high school, I adopted a kitten named Oliver. He was a lovely black-and-grey tiger cat, and I took care of him myself. Ollie, too, came with us to Rhode Island. The day my mother drove back to Philadelphia at the end of the summer, I had to be somewhere else. This turned out to be very unfortunate. My mother stopped by some woods somewhere and threw Oliver out the car door. When I returned home, looking for my cat, she shrugged her shoulders indifferently.
Losing Ollie was such a betrayal, and so brutally unkind to both the cat and to myself, that something broke inside me. Ollie was no mere rodent. I regarded my mother as a murderer, and sensed that this time she had not only played her hand but also revealed it. I saw that she had no empathy - not for me, not for the cat, not for anyone. I realized that she never had. Evil was not characterized by hatred, or rage, but indifference.
I am happy to say that the minute I got away from my parents, Artiste and I adopted a tiger kitten from Maine we named Miso. After that, one cold night Artiste was followed down a snow-covered road by a tiny mewling kitten who appeared out of nowhere. That kitten cleverly found the only people in Michigan who would pay to fix up a stray with fleas, mites, worms, too many toes, and a broken tail that was bent at a 90 degree angle. We named him Plutarch. Miso and Plutie became our substitute children for years, and were still around even after we had real children.
When my son was in high school, we finally relented to his pleas and got him Cosmo the Corgi, the smartest, handsomest, barkiest dog you could ever meet. They bonded as only a boy and his dog can. After that, my daughter asked for a rescue greyhound, and the beautiful Lily entered our lives. Both kids moved on - and the dogs stayed with us, of course.
I had never owned dogs before and was never a "dog person," but today I can't imagine life without them. It's amazing how much a dog adds to your life without being able to say a word.
The rescue organization was going to give us a large male dog named Lance, but then they called and said they had selected a different dog for us because I worked at home. They said she could not be alone, that she should have another dog for company, and she should not be around small children. She was afraid of thunderstorms, unable to use stairs, and oh by the way, she refused to be crated, ever. It also turned out that Lily had recent scars from the racetrack, that she was not housebroken, and she was afraid of men - particularly their feet, from getting kicked. She was afraid of wires, afraid of her leash, and afraid to go to the bathroom anywhere except in an enclosed yard. I once stood outdoors in the rain with her for an hour pleading with her to pee - to no avail, of course. Lily ate like a wolf, had never seen a dog treat, and had no idea there was a concept called "playing."
From Cosmo she learned how to chase toys, how to whine for treats, how to bark rudely at other dogs, and how to pee like a boy. She took over every sitting surface in the house, and rotates from filling up the entire sofa to occupying one or the other armchair. Greyhounds get cold easily, so she has her own wardrobe, and in the winter she sleeps on down quilts on our bed. In summer she sleeps in air conditioning in her own bed. Cosmo lies in the doorway, protecting us.
The amount if money we have spent on dog food and vet bills is staggering. Cosmo got pancreatitis and diabetes and almost died. Lily had to have oral surgery and lost several teeth. Cosmo developed ileus and almost died again. Each time we do whatever we have to do because PETS ARE FAMILY. You do not toss them out of car doors. You thank them for warning you that the dangerous brown UPS truck is nearby, or reminding you that your cell phone is ringing, or waiting for hours inside the front door for you to return home.
There's a prayer that goes: "God, please help me to become the person my dog already thinks I am." Dogs love us unconditionally and give us the opportunity to be our best selves. Pets - whether dogs, cats, gerbils, chinchillas, ferrets, fish, llamas, or horses - allow us to open our hearts and experience the opposite of evil indifference, and that is love.
No comments:
Post a Comment