This blog has three parts. Together, they will take about 20 minutes to read.
I’m thinking today about the pets that have paraded through my life.
Yesterday we lost our beloved granddog, Bear, a big, sweet golden retriever who was only nine. Bear was struggling with lung cancer and could hardly breathe. He left a family of five in a state of heartbreak, but grateful nonetheless to have had this sweet boy in their lives.
We had a host of large dogs when I was growing up. My father wanted them, loved them, but neglected to train and discipline them. (My mother put up with a great deal, and never complained in my presence.) There was a standard black French Poodle, Antoine “Tony,” who jumped up on everyone; a Weimaraner, Gyp (because he was the color of gypsum), who could jump over the fence and did, regularly; a Dalmatian, Buttons, who liked to show up at our next door neighbors’ house before they even got up, and peel the caps off their milk bottles; and a French Briard, Cyrano, who wreaked havoc on our home, but was utterly loveable.
We had several cats. When I was eight, we moved from W. Roma to N. 16th Avenue. When the movers finished packing the van and it was time to get in the car to drive to our new house, we could not find Tigger. We looked everywhere and left in tears, doubting that we’d ever see him again. We arrived at the new house, and as the movers unrolled a mattress, there was Tigger, fast asleep!
We moved again when I was nine. Sirikit was a seal point Siamese, who was smart, typically talkative, and loved to jump up and grab my arms with her claws, leaving me with red scratches which I ignored in favor of the game. Sirikit produced a beautiful litter of kitties. I’ll never forget lying on my stomach, head in the closet, watching them being born. It was like a magic show!
When I was 12, my father gave me a beautiful Maltese Persian he had found at the Humane Society. We named her Mrs. Wiggs, even though she was at least five and must have had a name. Mrs. Wiggs turned out to be one of those cats who can’t decide where she wants to be at night; in other words, she was neurotic. And it was clear that her place of choice was not my bed. She went in and out the window with my help, waking me several times a night. I was okay with that because I loved this kitty. But while I was visiting my great aunt for two weeks in South Pasadena, Mrs. Wiggs transferred her night-time badgering to my parents. And when I returned from my trip, Mrs. Wiggs was gone.
At some point, my dad bought a beautiful gray and white cockatiel and named him Mr. Bird. He was adorable, and although he didn’t talk much, he could say Hello and sing the first few bars of “Yankee Doodle.”
Mr. Bird loved my sister Alice’s hair, which was thick and curly, and he liked to ride around the house on her head. One day, Alice forgot he was there and walked outside. Away flew Mr. Bird, never to be seen again. Until one day, about 10 years later, I found myself in the neighbors’ kitchen, where I spotted a cockatiel in a cage. I asked about the bird, and Mrs. Johnson said, “Yes, it’s quite a story. One day we were sitting outside, and he landed in the pool! We picked him up and got him a cage, and he’s been with us ever since.” Lucky Mr. Bird.
My father had a host of aquariums lining one wall of his study. I loved the clown loach, the plecostomus, the corydora catfish, the red tail shark, and the Bala shark. I became his assistant fish-keeper.
We had seahorses for a while, which are very delicate fish, and Papá grew brine shrimp in a special tank for them, hoping to see the mating ritual, with male and female holding tails and promenading around the tank, followed by the laying of her eggs in the male’s pouch (at which point he seals it until the babies are ready to come out). I don’t remember that ever happening. But it was fun hoping.
When I was about 11, Papá was given a baby alligator he named Albert. Each night he would make a little ground beef meat ball for Albert, roll it in fine breadcrumbs, and put it on the rock in Albert’s aquarium. Albert would climb up and grab the thing, devouring it happily. Albert finally got too big to keep, and Papa donated him to the Phoenix Zoo.
We also had bettas (Siamese fighting fish), and it was fascinating to watch them breed. We watched the male build a bubble nest at the top of the breeding tank. Then Papá removed the glass separating the pair, and the male wrapped himself around the female until her eggs came floating out. He scooped them up in his mouth and put them in the nest. The female was then put in a different tank, while the male watched the nest. As the babies hatched, they fell from the nest and unfolded like tiny leaves. The male put them back until they could swim. And then dad had to go back to his own home.
The point of all this is to say that pets teach us so much!
Up Next: Part II