Family Pets

In the winter, when the weather is cold and nasty, and I’m indoors a lot, I think about getting a pet to keep me company. The children are all grown and moved out, the house is quiet, and I long for a friendly face and a wagging tail to greet me when I come home at night.

My husband pooh-poohs the idea and promises to smile more often and waggle his tail when he greets me at night, and when that doesn’t work he reminds me... “Remember the expense?... Remember what a hassle it was when the dog was sick?... Cleaning up the mess?...Remember when she would roll around in that muck outside and prance through the house smelling like sh..”

I raise my hand to stop him. The urge to have a pet has passed. We have had a few pets through the years – it was never a very good experience, I’ll admit. We just aren’t good pet people. Or maybe we chose the wrong pets.

We went to a shelter to adopt our first pet - a cute little tabby cat that they assured us was a female. I insisted on a female because I didn’t want to deal with a male cat spraying my furniture to mark his territory. I saw one flea on her the night we brought her home, but I caught it, and killed it, and thought that was the end of it.

Within a week, my house was flea infested, and on the first visit to the vet I was informed that my she-tabby was a he. Tabby grew into a huge monster that we all feared. Cuddly was not a word that I would use to describe this cat: nasty, snippy, lazy and fat were more like it – a demonic Garfield.

We had the cat spayed in the hope of sweetening his disposition and to avoid that awful spraying that males will do. This only made him meaner and fatter. The vet suggested having him declawed to stop the vicious scratching. But after his claws were removed, he came after us with his front paws, swinging like a prize fighter, perched up on his two hind legs, running after us.

I packed the cat in a cardboard box in my trunk one hot summer day and headed back to the shelter. From the moment I shut the trunk lid, he began to wail a high pitched screaming howl that sounded like some supernatural demonic beast. I caught the driver next to me looking over at my car when I stopped for a red light, but I looked straight ahead as if all was normal in my world. What sound? Coming from my trunk? Can’t be!

When I got to the shelter, I lifted the box out of the trunk and gently placed it on the ground. The cat was silent, but I knew he was still alive because I felt him pressing against the top of the box, trying to get out. I was so frightened to open the box with my bare hands, so I found a stick to gently pry the folded box top open. Crouching down a few feet away from the box, I gingerly lifted the top flap and the cat sprung out like an electrocuted jack-in-the-box and bolted out of sight. Good riddance!

I told the kids he ran away from home on his own free will, but they still searched the neighborhood for weeks. I hid behind the living room curtains, chewing my nails off and listening to their plaintive calls: “Tabby?” around the front bushes, then “Tabby?” in the neighbors’ yards.

The more they searched, the more fervently I prayed to God that this cat would never find its way home. I knew the cat would find a way to kill me if he did return, just for putting him through the ride from hell in that cardboard box in my trunk.

It took two years of sad eyed begging from the kids before we were convinced to try another pet – a dog this time. We went to a breeder, spending a small fortune, and came home with Bailey, the Springer Spaniel. True to his name, he kept jumping over the fences we built to contain him in the yard. When he was indoors, he was a streak of light blazing through the house like the Road Runner cartoon character, knocking things off of tables and leaving behind a cloud of dust and broken pieces. When we left him alone at home, he broke through all the gates and barricades we set up, ignored the doggie toys and rawhide teething bones, and had a grand time chewing our door jambs and wooden furniture. We sold him after six months.

Soon after Bailey, the children were begging for another cat, so we went to another shelter in a different – more upscale – neighborhood. At this shelter, you had to pay for your pet, so we were convinced that we would be coming home with a better – more upscale – cat. What we weren’t prepared for was the intensive screening process.

First we had to complete a four page questionnaire and list three personal references (not family members) that could vouch for our character, disposition and moral fiber. Then we were split up from each other and taken into separate rooms to be interviewed – like they do in those police shows when they interview multiple felons involved in the same crime. My husband went into one room for an interview and I took the kids into the room with me, rather than leave them alone to wander among the animals. Big mistake.

When my interviewer asked how we would discipline the animal, my son butts in and says, “Remember when you chased Bailey through the yard with a hairbrush after he chewed up the dining room chairs?” He ignored my scornful look. “Don’t you remember, mom?” he laughs, turning to the interviewer who asked him to please continue.

“Mom was so mad. She was yelling, I’m going to kill you! while she was running after Bailey, but she couldn’t catch him. Bailey was such a fast runner. So she reached into her pocketbook and grabbed her brush and threw it at him and the brush landed on his back and broke in half! But Bailey just kept on running around the yard like he didn’t even feel a thing! It was so funny!”

We did not go home with a cat that day, but, a few months later, we went to another breeder and came home with the most loving, adorable, sweet tempered West Highland Terrier. We had the best of both worlds with this dog because she thought she was a cat. She was so affectionate and gentle and loved to cuddle.

I was welcomed home every night with so much enthusiasm. She greeted me with a big doggie smile and ran circles around my feet, wagging her tail and leaving a trail of pee in her wake. She peed in her cage every night, too, and liked to pee on the rugs from time to time. As she got older, she peed wherever and whenever she liked. She was a lady, however, and was discreet with her bowel movements, leaving them out of view and neatly piled at the top of the stairs.

As much as I would sometimes like to get a pet now, I know I’m not ready to make that commitment again. I would much rather rent my neighbor’s cat, Max, when I’m in the mood for some purring.

Max thinks my yard is his territory and I’m happy when he strolls over for a visit. I rub his belly and call him sweet names in a sing-song voice. He purrs as he slinks in between my legs and rubs his cat hair all over my pants. In the summertime I let him into my screened-in back porch and he sits there with me - just chillin’ – while I sip a drink or read a magazine.

With Max there’s no commitment, no responsibility. I don’t have to offer him a snack, I don’t have to pay for his vet bills or clean out his litter box. We just have fun together – like a date. And when I’ve had enough of him, I send him home.

Sometimes I feel bad leaving Max outdoors in the dead of winter. I think I would like to open the front door and let him come into my house, but I know that will be the end of our beautiful relationship. The next thing you know, he will be looking at me funny if I don’t clean out his litter box, or turning up his nose at the cheap cat food I bought in the discount pet store.

You know how that is. When you’re dating, it’s all fun and laughs and money is no object. And then you get married and, well, let’s just say things change. It’s always better to keep it casual. Everyone stays happy that way.