1I know what it's like to love a frog. I believe my first pet was a common frog, a moist, green, handful in the grasp of an intrepid four-year-old. Caught fresh from the ground by a grubby boy. I loved grubby boys; grubby boys knew how to have fun, they were brave, reaching out, unabashedly, into the world taking what they wanted, enjoying life fully.
I was not a prissy girl; in fact, I was more often found down in the dirt, driving cars, contouring roads in the bare earth, unconsciously, wiping dirty hands on my shorts. Regularly unaware of filthy knees, dirt-streaked brow and cheek, my mother disgusted with my appearance, admonished me to clean myself up. My grandmother understood my penchant for boy-centric tendencies, indulging me with cars, trucks, and approved places to drive them; the knee-high, concrete block wall, magically transformed into a highway, through the power of imagination. Or the special place in the backyard, carved out from the flower garden.
Turtles came next, real ones, not of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle variety. Grandma was always the one to give me a sense of normalcy and stability; pets, age appropriate chores, handicrafts to build up my confidence, love and affection. I don't know what ever happened to those turtles. Perhaps, they were callously flushed to live out their lives as the stuff of urbane legends.
Fat Cat was the apple of our eyes. Living in Illinois with mother's second husband, Fat Cat played with a mouse, while two little girls and their mother leapt up on the sofa, screaming their faces off. Fat Cat endured being carted around the house, dressed for dinner, and being fought over, sometimes tug-o-war style.
Cats came and went. We thought they ran away; to our horror, years later, overhearing our loving parents laugh about taking our beloved pets on the long walk. After the birth of my brother, the pets became puppies who grew into dogs. More long walks.
As a teen, I took to hamsters and the Habitrail, a plastic collection of above-ground hamster trails. The piece de resistance, the Hampster Ball, which allowed the cuddly rodent the run of the house, was a hoot. Of course, that first incarnation of translucent orange and yellow tubes was prone to escape by chewing the plastic joints to freedom. One of those bids for freedom ended in the ultimate price when the dog caught her first. I was devastated.
None of my experiences as a pet owner, as a kid, ended well. It's amazing that I'd ever want to try again, but my desire sparked up again as a settled, married adult. Off-road Vehicle was an awesome, male, black and white shorthair feline; he was lithe, athletic, sinuous. So much energy and power inside a kitty body and intelligent. Seriously, he trained my husband and myself!
One day, after scoping my mother-in-law's athletic shoes, he attacked and tore off the "dingle ball" from her Peds, low-cut sock. After acquiring his booty, he tore around the house, flipping the fuzzy ball into the air, catching it in his mouth, pinballing it all over the living room carpet, until... He presented it to my husband to throw; an interactive game was born! Schooled by a cat!!!
Off-Road was a cherished member of our family through bullying the neighborhood dogs, the birth of my daughter, The arrival of a cocker spaniel puppy, which heeded the dominance of the cat. To our grief, that regal cat was found by the neighbor curled up around the air filter of one of his project cars. Our only consolation was that he seemed to go peacefully.
Another cat, Skid Mark, welcomed me into my condo. He was my death-defying companion; balancing on the wrought iron railing surrounding my lanai patio, three floors up, Skid Mark, was fearless. I, on the other hand, am not.
After meeting my husband and setting up housekeeping, we acquired littermates, Gracie and Shithead. Two grey tabby shorthair felines, one prone to attitude, the other preening and beautiful with softer lines (okay, fluffier, or fatter). Shithead was, well, a shit head. She was the cat who walked down the fireplace mantel, knocking stuff off, because she could. I think she started off with a sweeter name but it's been lost to time because she, so thoroughly, lived up to her psuedonym.
Gracie and Shithead were both well loved; Shithead preferred my husband and Gracie was my baby. Early on, Gracie was diagnosed with feline diabetes, so we switched both cats to expensive, healthy cat food to control through diet. Unfortunately, we still ended up losing Shithead at around seven years, when she wobbled out from under the covered table. We rushed her to the vet but she was too far gone. She died in our arms.
Gracie was my baby for fifteen years until she passed away; she sat on my lap when I was active and healthy; she sat on my lap when I drove my wheelchair; she sat on my lap in the nursing home. I often wondered which of us would pass first, me with my ALS, or her, from old age. We had Gracie cremated so we can mix her cremains with mine after I'm gone. I never want to be without her.
I was not a prissy girl; in fact, I was more often found down in the dirt, driving cars, contouring roads in the bare earth, unconsciously, wiping dirty hands on my shorts. Regularly unaware of filthy knees, dirt-streaked brow and cheek, my mother disgusted with my appearance, admonished me to clean myself up. My grandmother understood my penchant for boy-centric tendencies, indulging me with cars, trucks, and approved places to drive them; the knee-high, concrete block wall, magically transformed into a highway, through the power of imagination. Or the special place in the backyard, carved out from the flower garden.
Turtles came next, real ones, not of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle variety. Grandma was always the one to give me a sense of normalcy and stability; pets, age appropriate chores, handicrafts to build up my confidence, love and affection. I don't know what ever happened to those turtles. Perhaps, they were callously flushed to live out their lives as the stuff of urbane legends.
Fat Cat was the apple of our eyes. Living in Illinois with mother's second husband, Fat Cat played with a mouse, while two little girls and their mother leapt up on the sofa, screaming their faces off. Fat Cat endured being carted around the house, dressed for dinner, and being fought over, sometimes tug-o-war style.
Cats came and went. We thought they ran away; to our horror, years later, overhearing our loving parents laugh about taking our beloved pets on the long walk. After the birth of my brother, the pets became puppies who grew into dogs. More long walks.
As a teen, I took to hamsters and the Habitrail, a plastic collection of above-ground hamster trails. The piece de resistance, the Hampster Ball, which allowed the cuddly rodent the run of the house, was a hoot. Of course, that first incarnation of translucent orange and yellow tubes was prone to escape by chewing the plastic joints to freedom. One of those bids for freedom ended in the ultimate price when the dog caught her first. I was devastated.
None of my experiences as a pet owner, as a kid, ended well. It's amazing that I'd ever want to try again, but my desire sparked up again as a settled, married adult. Off-road Vehicle was an awesome, male, black and white shorthair feline; he was lithe, athletic, sinuous. So much energy and power inside a kitty body and intelligent. Seriously, he trained my husband and myself!
One day, after scoping my mother-in-law's athletic shoes, he attacked and tore off the "dingle ball" from her Peds, low-cut sock. After acquiring his booty, he tore around the house, flipping the fuzzy ball into the air, catching it in his mouth, pinballing it all over the living room carpet, until... He presented it to my husband to throw; an interactive game was born! Schooled by a cat!!!
Off-Road was a cherished member of our family through bullying the neighborhood dogs, the birth of my daughter, The arrival of a cocker spaniel puppy, which heeded the dominance of the cat. To our grief, that regal cat was found by the neighbor curled up around the air filter of one of his project cars. Our only consolation was that he seemed to go peacefully.
Another cat, Skid Mark, welcomed me into my condo. He was my death-defying companion; balancing on the wrought iron railing surrounding my lanai patio, three floors up, Skid Mark, was fearless. I, on the other hand, am not.
After meeting my husband and setting up housekeeping, we acquired littermates, Gracie and Shithead. Two grey tabby shorthair felines, one prone to attitude, the other preening and beautiful with softer lines (okay, fluffier, or fatter). Shithead was, well, a shit head. She was the cat who walked down the fireplace mantel, knocking stuff off, because she could. I think she started off with a sweeter name but it's been lost to time because she, so thoroughly, lived up to her psuedonym.
Gracie and Shithead were both well loved; Shithead preferred my husband and Gracie was my baby. Early on, Gracie was diagnosed with feline diabetes, so we switched both cats to expensive, healthy cat food to control through diet. Unfortunately, we still ended up losing Shithead at around seven years, when she wobbled out from under the covered table. We rushed her to the vet but she was too far gone. She died in our arms.
Gracie was my baby for fifteen years until she passed away; she sat on my lap when I was active and healthy; she sat on my lap when I drove my wheelchair; she sat on my lap in the nursing home. I often wondered which of us would pass first, me with my ALS, or her, from old age. We had Gracie cremated so we can mix her cremains with mine after I'm gone. I never want to be without her.
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