Pets I Have Known

They're an important part of many a household. Fuzzy, furry, feathery, fluffy, fishy....all hail the family pet!

Our first pet was a cute little dog named Bandit. I think she was a mutt, but I always thought she looked like a small Lassie. She was a smart little thing. We had a shared driveway at our house, and she would only bark if someone pulled into our side of it. Mom said she used to take little trips around the neighborhood and visit some of the folks down the road. They'd call and tell mom they had her and they'd bring her home in a little bit. Quite the social animal she was...

However, the time came when we had to have her put to sleep. That was hard...so dad decided to bring in another dog to ease the pain. Enter George. George looked like that sheep dog that played with Wile E. Coyote in the Looney Tunes cartoons. And George was dumb. Really, really dumb. For one thing, he was huge. And Heather and I weren't. I can't count the number of times he knocked us to the ground. Big lug. He also chewed mom's rosebushes to the ground...thorns and all. And I believe he's the one that had the lovely habit of taking his waterdish and flinging it up in the air and allowing it to land on the concrete patio repeatedly. He most enjoyed doing this throughout the night hours. The neighbors didn't seem to enjoy it so much. Dad finally had to get rid of George. I think he dumped him off on my Aunt and Uncle. It's a wonder they still speak to us.

After that, mom said no more pets. So, we were petless for a while. Then one day dad shows up carrying his hat in his hand. He calls us over to show us what he has....and there's a little toy poodle hanging out in his hat. Hello Molly! Now, this was a dog. You talk about personality and attitude in a tiny little black furry package. Molly had spirit. When someone came over to the house she would bark and bark. Mom would yell at her to stop so she'd squeeze in behind the couch to continue her woofing. Mom would yell again and we'd hear it go silent for a second...then one tiny little "woof" would eke out from her hiding place. No matter how many times you told her to stop, she would always wait you out (sometimes quite a while) and make sure she got the last "woof" in!

She also hated baths. Fortunately she was small enough that you could generally get her in the tub, but the second you got her out, man, it was like a streak of lightning had been let loose. She would run full speed through our tiny little house like an ignited rocket. She literally would scorch into the living room, take a flying leap and jump against the back of the couch so hard that it would rock. Woe to you if you got in her way. Just ask Heather about the night she was sitting on the couch when Molly was released from her bath. I'll be she still has a bruise where that little pup slammed into her!

Mom would usually let her upstairs after we'd gone to bed, and she would normally sleep with me. Up she'd come, her little toenails clacking on the tile floor. She'd take a running leap and try to get in bed with me. Unfortunately, she was too small and the bed was too high, so what you'd hear was "clickity-clickity-clickity-clickity.....thump" Then she'd back up and try again. And again. And again. Until finally Heather would scream from the other room "PUT MOLLY IN THE BED WITH YOU!" So I'd have to get up and put her up there. She then would promptly take over every ounce of sleeping space that I had. Now, she was little, but forceful. She would get between me and the wall and stiffen her legs out as far as they could go, pushing me to the very brink of the mattress. And if you tried to move her to make her give you more room, she'd just stay in that stiff position regardless if you picked her up or whatever. Eventually she'd crawl down under the covers and sleep by my feet. Which was fine until about 2 or 3 in the morning when she'd get hot and come crawling out from under there, blowing her panting dog breath in my face. I loved her...but that was nasty!

Well, we lost Molly to a tour bus one night. (Toy poodles have no chance against stupid tour buses!) Losing her was really hard. So we vowed off pets. That is, until one of Heather's friends needed to get rid of a bird. A bird named Tipsy. It didn't take us long to realize why they named it that. She'd be sitting there on her little perch fine as frog hair, then all of a sudden...she'd just fall off. It was very bizarre and fairly entertaining to watch. Poor thing...It either needed therapy or AA....

Tipsy loved to sing with me when I played the piano. She'd just chirp and chirp away. There was also one particular Christmas CD she must have liked, because she would always sing with it too. Not the others...just that one. It was kind of funny how she always knew it was that one playing. Mom decided one day Tipsy needed some exercise, so we let her loose in the house. Gotta say, that was not one of the wiser decisions we've ever made. It seems that birds who have been caged up, then are let free, are not so willing to oblige you to enter back into the cage again. After we FINALLY caught her, that was the last of little Tipsy's freedom fest!

Well, we actually ended up killing Tipsy. Not intentionally, of course. See, we sat her birdcage on top of the entertainment center. The heat rising up from the TV would keep her warm during the day, but then at night she would get very cold when it was off. So basically, she caught pneumonia from it. By the time we recognized it and got her to the vet, it was too late. Little Tipsy fell from her last perch. (And we all felt like dogs....pardon the very weak pun there.)

Someday, if I ever get my own place, I may get me another pet. Until then, I'll just cherish the fond memories of Bandit, Molly and Tipsy.

And the fond memory of getting rid of George.

I guess all pets can't be good ones!

It's Not My Fault...

I did something I hate today.

I killed a bird.

It wasn't my fault. The thing just swooped in like a Japanese Kamikaze fighter and landed smack dab on my grill before I even saw it. Why do birds do that? My theory is that they're getting lazier. No, I'm not kidding. There was a day when birds never swooped down on me like that. OK, they might drift into the windshield...but the grill?! Come on Tweety - get some air under those wings! And Dad would always tell us not to worry about birds in the road because they'll get out of the way before you hit them. HA! The ones around here anymore just stand there and stare you down...like they're DARING you to hit them! So either they're getting mighty lazy or mighty attitudy. Either way, they're gonna die if they don't knock it off!

Now compare them to the squirrels. See, I really feel bad when I hit the squirrels. Because they don't have the attitude. They are just schizophrenic. Seriously, have you ever watched a squirrel crossing the road? They can be running in a simple straight line...would be perfectly fine if they'd just keep going. But no...the minute they hear a car, what do they do? Stop. Stand up. Look panicked. Turn to run the other direction. No, that's no good. Turn the other way. No...stop....no...run faster...no...stop...turn around....stop...go..wait...go...nnnooooooo....JUST TAKE A BIG LEAP AND JUMP AS FAR AS YOU CAN!!!! By this time you've either given yourself whiplash trying to avoid them...or turned them into a little squirrel pancake. Neither option is very desirable.

Of course it's never good when you hit someone's family pet. Really...let's not even go there, as I still harbor very ill feelings for the people who killed our little dog Molly. Of course that could also be because they were driving a tour bus 80 miles an hour down a small residential street, and a little toy poodle stands very little chance against a tour bus going 80 miles an hour. Very little. Dumb people.

My personal worst though was the deer. See, they're most generally to blame for their own deaths too. I mean, we put up crossing signs for them at specific spots along the road, but do they ever cross there? NOOOO. Little renegades. Well, see what they get. It's lovely really...there's nothing like having a big brown, hoofed animal flying into your windshield. At 12 midnight. When you're all by yourself on a country road. I call the police, then call mom. I'm trying to tell her what happened, and I can hear dad in the background hollering "What happened, what happened??" So she's trying to tell him while I try to tell her...which, well you can imagine how that was going. Then I can hear dad switching over to "Tell her to lock her doors! Tell her to lock her doors! Does she have her doors locked? Tell her to lock her doors!". Finally I shout into the phone - "Mom - tell Dad I DO have my doors locked!" That must have been his biggest concern, because I didn't hear him again. He never asked if I was hurt...as long as I had taken care of the essential door locking. Ah, the things that weigh on a father's mind.

At one point in my life I was killing an animal every time I got into the car. It was weird...they just kept running out in front of me. And I kept hitting them. I'd go into work all droopy and tell them, "Well, I killed a (rabbit, bird, squirrel) again this morning. So one day I go in and they've taken the rabbit head from our Company's Easter Bunny costume and put it under one of the legs of my chair, and changed my screen saver to read "THUMP, THUMP".

HA HA - Very funny. Bunch of smart alecks.

So anyway...I do try to avoid them, but sometimes it just happens. So please beware all you little schizophrenic woodland creatures that may or may not have an attitude or are feeling lazy today and don't want to cross at the crossing sign like you're supposed too...

You're taking your life into your own hands!
(uh...I mean..paws. Or hooves. Or wings. Or...whatever....)