I’m not what you’d call an “animal person.”
This is not to say I dislike animals. I abhor animal cruelty,
dogfighting, and puppy mills. I strongly believe in responsible pet ownership.
Those Sarah McLachlan ASPCA commercials tug at my
heartstrings, proof that I indeed have a soul.
I just don’t have the affinity toward animals that most
people seem to have. They’re “pretty okay” in my book.
It’s a combination of mild indifference, ambivalence and
allergic reaction.
Growing up, pets were not really a part of our family. My
sisters and I did have a few goldfish that managed to survive long enough to
reproduce and subsequently dispose of their offspring – a lesson straight from
nature’s school of hard knocks, and one that was off-putting enough to deter us
from requesting replacements when Goldie and Pop-Pop finally took the Potty
Express to fishie heaven.
When my fourth grade classmate wanted to find a new home for
her parakeets, I begged my parents to let me adopt them. I imagined they would
perch upon my shoulder, chirping merrily, and I would teach them to talk.
Instead, my mother found herself a reluctant owner of two rather grumpy, aging
parakeets who did not seem to be interested in making new friends.
Aside from occasionally lobbying my parents for a Yorkshire
Terrier puppy that I swore I would take care of, cross-my-heart, I gave up on
the idea of a family pet.
In my second year at college, I met a farmer who was
searching for homes for her barn cat’s newest litter. She gave me a tiny black
kitten with silky white paws.
His name was Zeus. And I loved him instantly.
He hated me.
I tried, in vain, to win him over. But I had no idea how to
do that. Evidently, brushing his fur daily was not the key to his heart. I
tried snuggling with him at night, but he wanted only to lie across my throat
with his front paws in my mouth, which was uncomfortable and slightly
terrifying.
In the meantime, I discovered that my allergy to cats had intensified
with a vengeance. I was popping Seldane-D like Tic-Tacs, yet my eyes remained
watery, my nose itchy, my airway constricted.
After a few months of this misery, Zeus happily went to live
with a friend of mine, swatting at me as he was carried away, in some sort of smug
feline version of flipping the bird.
In the 15 years since I bid Zeus good riddance, I’ve never
adopted another pet. One reason is the severity of my allergies. I have several
friends whose kitty-harboring homes I can’t visit for more than a few minutes
without my immune system retaliating with intense itching and hives, and my
respiratory system upping the ante with a full-on asthma attack.
Another reason is that I would rather not be responsible for
yet another living being who consumes food, trashes my house, racks up medical
bills, and requires my assistance with the potty.
But I can’t help but wonder if I’m missing out.
This idea has been percolating for the past year, as I
witnessed a friend’s stress and heartache while she cared for her ailing pet.
Her dog, Jessie, who succumbed to cancer a few weeks ago, was as much a family
member to her as are her husband and two children. I didn’t understand how
anyone could love an animal so selflessly and with such abandon.
I couldn’t
understand it.
Yet the fact that I wanted
to understand has opened my eyes. I am intrigued and inspired by my friend’s
love for Jessie. Clearly, my brief and pathetic stints as a pet owner are no
match for the relationship they shared.
They were family. If that special kind of loyalty and love
can exist in our world, we’re all better off for it.
I might not ever be an “animal person.” But I’m genuinely
happy that plenty of other people are.
No comments:
Post a Comment