Roll Call of the Loved Animals

Rusty Boy Beauty, Caesar, Shashlik, Rein, Jackson, Susy, Dilly, Kishka, Suky, Minnie and Tashy, Winston, Fluffy, Worky and Churchy, Friedman Pasha, Patsy Cline, Dr. Frizzle, Babe, Buddy, Bugsy, Tom, Vivi, Lily, Nosy, Pippin...

Birds, fish, hamsters, mice, dogs, cats, some with us for months, others more than a decade; the biters, the bullies, the arrogant, the cuddly, the submissive; the ones who floated through life, seemingly oblivious, and the ones who loved back, fiercely; the inscrutable, and the ones who wore their hearts on their sleeves; the ones who flew and the ones who scuttled; the ones who ran in fields and swam in lakes, the ones who slept the day away; the ones who begged for food, and the ones who behaved; the ones we fostered and the ones whose tiny lives we struggled valiantly to save; and the ones who died in our arms...

and the wild creatures, called simply Frog, Toad, and Worm, Caterpillar and Newt, Squirrel, Spider, Sparrow, and Fox, nursed to health or placed out of harm's way...

In the names, remembered or now-forgotten, whimsical or well-considered, literary, historical, or childish, the story of a family who loves animals.

Rest in Peace, Good Old Dog

Pippin died tonight. I am so brokenhearted.

The Inconvenience of Loving a Dog

Right smack dab in the midst of holiday festivities, Hedgie's three-day birthday celebration, playdates and present-giving and lunch at the American Girl Place in Manhattan, my nearly 15-year-old mutt Pippin is inconveniently winding down a long and varied life. Needless to say, I won't belabor the details, but it's unnerving and sad to see this once rowdy boy slipping away bit by bit. An emergency vet visit last week yielded some meds that temporarily alleviated things, but obviously there's something more serious going on.

I will be going back to his regular vet, but I don't believe in spending thousands and thousands of dollars, nor do I have this money, to prolong the discomfort of an old dog. I guess sometime soon a decision will have to be made, one that many of us have made before. It's always harrowing. I would have loved a few more years to kiss his smelly face and wipe away my tears in his soft brisket, and watch him swim and try to steal food, and bark at squirrels. I keep hoping I'll wake up and he'll be back to his old self, but so far, it hasn't happened. So I'm trying to prepare myself for goodbye. And I'm praying for the strength to make the right decision, not for me, but for him.

Thankful for Pippin

Old dog, hideous breath, portly middle, you only grumble a little when I squeeze your soft soft self, you pee on the floor sometimes now and are deaf and more than a little blind, but still you're worth a price above rubies.

Laughing Mom, Dear Old Dog

...and Welcome, Whomper

Maybe it's too soon, but the empty cage was making us all feel funny.




So baldly stated, this hamster transaction. There's the food. Then there's the unfortunately named "Hamsteroids," an outsized hamster treat for power nibbling. Then there's the hamster itself. 9.99. Less than ten dollars for a mohawked, whiskered, tufty-butted, whimsical little man. People, I love hamsters. It goes against all sense and reason--the blank, beady eyes, the inexorable movement toward escape. They take everything from us, and give nothing back. But somehow, this household feels incomplete without one.

Godspeed, Dr. Frizzle

I just discovered Dr. Frizzle in a cold, dead circle in the corner of his palatial estate. Poor little guy. Who knows what happened--he'd gotten loose again two days ago, and appeared on our counter a day later--he seemed okay, but I guess he either ate something or fell too far and injured himself. I've seen a lot of pets die, but it's always sad in its little way. Plus, dead rodent isn't so pleasant.

For a moment, I had the sitcom idea of replacing him without telling Hedgehog (let's be completely honest here; one hamster is pretty much like another, except for the ones who bite), and then realized that yes, I'll have to tell her. It's not that she hasn't been around death--unfortunately, she's already experienced the death of my dad--but somehow this I know will hit home. I'm absolutely dreading tomorrow morning...

Well, so be it.

"The world was not made for one as beautiful as he," eulogized Sarge. Okay, maybe that's overstating it, but I liked the little guy.

post script: I told Hedgehog this morning; there was a flood of quiet tears, and then we buried him in the backyard by the stone lion. It really was very sad.

But we're already planning for our next hamster...Sgt. Pepper seemed none too pleased...

Dr. Frizzle in Maxi-Max

Do you know about super maximum security penitentiaries? Maxi-max? Well, poor Dr. Frizzle has been sentenced to such a life, and not for any crime he has committed.  Where once this proud hamster roamed freely through a spacious three-cage compound (bigger than some NYC studio apartments! ba-dum-bum), now he is relegated to one cage, and this cage in lockdown:

Note the cleverly-wrapped page wire.  Why? Because of our mouse "infestion" (as E has so humorously neologized).  These mice, though tiny, are repulsively abundant.  All our best efforts to date have failed to stop them from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.  And now, most recently, they have begun to "visit" poor Dr. Frizzle in his home.  Last week, A saw THREE of these creatures crouched around his food dish, chowing down, while Dr. F. cowered in his tower room.  Why doesn't he fight them off? He's enormous by comparison.  But I guess he's just too sweet-tempered, that old guy.  So finally, we've fortified the cage, hardened the target, if you will, to borrow from criminal justice lingo.

Yet, just last night, I heard a frantic squeaking.  Yes, another mouse had made his way in, through a tiny hole I'd neglected to cover, but couldn't find his way out again.  He was terrified, weeping in his little mousish way, while Dr. Frizzle just sat and stared at him. Ugh.  Needless to say, after I'd dealt with the mouse, washed out the cage, washed my hands about eighty or so times, soothed Dr. Frizzle with soft croons and caresses (yes, hamsters need these ministrations...), and stopped up the last hole, I felt strangely defeated. What now? A BB gun?

Please Master

That's Coney, a wicked little dog of our acquaintance, begging my mother-in-law with haunted eyes: "'Suffering has a peculiar attraction for me. Nothing can intensify my passion more than tyranny, cruelty, and especially the faithlessness of a beautiful woman...'* please, I beg of you--roast beef, before another moment passes unsatiated..." I just finished "Venus in Furs." All I can say is, either you're the hammer or the anvil. And although this dog seems to be the anvil, in fact he's the hammer. And therein lies the secret to life and relationships.

Every waking second of the last four days not spent reading "Structural Change in Large Municipal Police Organizations During the Community Policing Era" and "Venus in Furs" has been spent obsessing over my latest oeuvre, a very long and winding piece of Severus fan fiction. After reading so many (many) variants on my beloved Potions Master by all and sundry (some, I might add are darn good writers), I decided to add my own voice to the slightly maladapted but fun-loving choir. It's like sitting around eating bonbons, that's how much fun it is. 55 pages and counting. Guess how many pages my dissertation is?



*from "Venus in Furs," von Sacher-Masoch