My View on Pets

Grace's fish died this morning. Ah well, one less thing to look after. Not that fish are difficult but there is always a reminder that a fish tank, even a small one, needs to be cleaned. And that is something you have to "schedule". I may as well just say it. I am not an "animal person".

I probably just lost 99% of my readers.

Its true though. It isn't that I don't appreciate animals, or think that they are beautiful, or that they have a place - somewhere, it is simply that I have no desire to be cleaning up after a living thing that will be nothing more than an infant forever and ever more. No matter how old they are, they will always need you to do everything for them. They can be very sweet (when I am sad, our dogs are always very sympathetic no matter how much I ignore them the rest of the time) but when you weigh the pros and cons on my scale, it invariably tips to "forget it".

My first dog was Princess Jeannie. I was about 3 or 4 and the only thing I remember at all about her is her name. Big dog? Small dog? Nice dog? No idea. My mother was a sucker for baby anythings and we got a mutt once we named Mugsy. I don't remember much about him either. He was a small dog I think and we had him for a long time but I couldn't tell you what he looked like. My mom once let a stray dog in. He was huge. We had him one day. We left him in the house and when we got home from school he had torn everything up and pulled off the front door frame. I remember him. Then there was Lottie - a fluff ball of a puppy who dug a hole under the fence and ran away. Lincoln was a black cat we had - he got distemper and became mean and nasty. It took us three days to put him down. My little sister Lisa had a big some-kind-of-dog named Boy. He was a good dog I seem to recall. But we had to give him away when we moved to an apartment. In all, my animal experience growing up was "eh".

When Bob and I got married, I inherited a cat that Anne had adopted and named Emily. We had her for a long time. My strongest memory of her was just after we moved to Thousand Oaks. We had hired the neighbor girls to take care of our animals for a few days while we spent Christmas at my Aunt Barbara's in Arizona. They left cat food out for Emily but never saw her. When we got home, we found her hiding in our closet. Fast forward to SuperBowl Sunday in January. Bob is glued to the set and I decide to go to the mall to buy some towels or something. I slipped on an old pair of comfy shoes and off I went. I was at Macy's and I noticed they were having a shoe sale. "Ah!", I thought. "I need some new shoes". So I picked out a shoe, the sales guy went and got it, came back, sat down at his little bench, and proceeded to help me try it on. He took off my shoe and immediately flew back as if someone from across the mall had a bungee cord tied to his waist and had pulled it back at full force. My foot smelled like something had died twice. Never in my life had I wanted to have the earth swallow me up so badly. (I imagine that sales guy is still telling that story.) Apparently, Emily the cat, while hiding in my closet during Christmas, had peed in my shoe. Clearly more than once. It had dried but the warmth of my foot set the aroma alight again. Emily would also often leave us "gifts" of bloody birds and mice. I could not be cajoled into thinking of it as an offering of love from the cat. I saw it as an offering of a legitimate reason to not have a cat.

When my older girls were really little, in a moment of intense insanity (remember I had three babies)I had bought the cutest beagle puppy that ever lived and we named him Winston. I bought him full price at a pet store. He was a full breed and he cost a fortune. I loved him as a puppy but then he grew up to be a dog. A hunting howling dog. And the only thing worse than a hunting howling dog is a hunting howling dog that thinks he is a person. And he was strong. And when we moved to Thousand Oaks where there are uncountable rabbits and rattle snakes and possums and coyote and general vermin, he lost his mind. Because we are still a residential neighborhood and a beagle running like a mad man through flowers and bushes and shrubs and swimming pools - howling all the while - to catch a thing - is not okay. So we had to keep him indoors and so Winston howled constantly. The neighbors complained. We had to lock him in a room in order for us to leave the house. If he was around and you opened the front door one inch - he would find a way to get out and then there was no telling when we'd see him again, or in what kind of shape. Or what damage had been done. Or what neighbor would be calling. The final straw came one day when I had ventured across the street to ask my neighbor's housekeeper if she was available to take us on as well. The housekeeper and I were having a conversation at the neighbor's front door when somehow Winston got out and bolted down our hill, across the street and into the neighbor's house at lightening speed - to chase their cat. The neighbors had white furniture and Winston was all over it with his dirty paw prints and the housekeeper and I had to chase him all over the house before we finally caught him. The next weekend, he went to a beagle rescue center (where he was adopted two weeks later) but my kids never forgave me.

So that was that until after much whining and begging and puppy eyes from my animal adoring family, I conceded to getting a bishon frise - because they don't shed. And they don't slobber and they are too short to jump up and sniff your crotch. But they do pee. A lot. And they need to be coddled and held and petted and loved on and pampered like a two week old infant until the day they die about 20 years from now. And in an attempt to get our little Toby to be a little less reliant on us, two years later I bought him a friend - another little bishon we

named Jack and now we have two little dogs who share a bed and play with each other but still pee a lot and need to be coddled and held and petted and loved on and pampered like two week old infant twins. And everyone in our house loves those dogs. Except me. Because I don't see the dogs. I see the carpets. And the shredded blankets and pillows. And the chewed on furniture. And an indoor dog gate I have to climb over several times everyday. And a family who will never train them. The dogs get very excited and animated when anyone comes home. Except me. When I come home, they lift their heads and put them back down. Because they know. I am not a fan.

Grace wanted her own pet so against my better judgement, about 4 years ago we got her a guinea pig once who did absolutely nothing but hide behind a small rock in its cage for a year and a half. If we put him in one of those plastic walking balls, he just sat there. He did no damage but he stunk - and I mean insufferably. I would nearly gag each time I went into her room and all anyone said was: "well, guinea pigs do stink". I wept with joy when he died. I'm sorry, but I did.

Today, when the fish died, I was relieved. One less thing in my house that needs to be fed. So when Jennifer, feeling sorry for Grace for having lost her fish, came home with a hamster and a cage and food and sawdust this afternoon - I completely went insane. Because I am done with pets. I have one husband, four kids and two dogs left and I'm not taking on an ant. And so, now at 6:14 p.m., that cute-little-soft-teeny-white-and-gold rodent is sitting in its carry box on the table in the foyer because it is going back. TONIGHT.

But it is cute.