Family Ties
Published 12:00 am Saturday, August 11, 2001
MARY ANN FITZMORRIS
Look what followed me home It’s animal campaign time again. Some friends actually intentionally allowed their two labrador retrievers to mate. My daughter began to wait in excited anticipation from the moment the announcement was made. Such things make me sweat. The last time anyone’s anything had babies, my precious young lady badgered us into taking home an adorable little kitty. Three litters later, we remain the embarrassed owners of seven cats. Fortunately the family felines have the good manners to disappear into the woods whenever a car drives up, unlike so many other cats, who relocate base camp to the visiting auto. Tres Gauche! My daughter now pays scant attention to what I lovingly refer to as the Slug Fest. That’s when all seven adult cats lie around sunning themselves on the deck. Occasionally she will pick one up. That lasts about 10 seconds. My son appreciates cats as only a boy can. He gives them the lots of attention, consistently devising new methods of aggravation. He is the only member of the family who truly enjoys this bountiful crop of family pets. The feeling is definitely not mutual. Conversely, the dog and my son are an item. Their relationship is out of Norman Rockwell – the boy riding off on his bicycle to get the newspaper, his beloved dog trotting alongside with a pouch to carry it back. My daughter is mildly envious of this relationship, hence the interest in the new puppies. As soon as the babies arrived, I was reminded of how much trouble new pets are. For the adults of the household. Our friend took us to the yard to see her dog’s lovely new family. Stapled all over the doghouse were sheets of the laundry aid Bounty, which the Scouts have proclaimed the best bug deterrent. The next time we visited, the pets had been moved to the garage, with a fan blowing on an empty blanket. The dogs were huddled elsewhere. My friend looked considerably more anxious and tired than the last time I saw her. A week later she returned from the vet with the news that all the puppies had ringworm and they would require baths twice a day. The old box of abandoned babies in the Wal-Mart parking lot trick was looking better and better, I joked. My harried friend just stared. Was she briefly considering it? My daughter realized her chances for a new pup were fading with each visit. Then we learned her favorite, the runt, had gone to a friend. We had to go see him. Her friend let my daughter cradle him like a baby. The little pup crossed his paws and gazed sweetly at my daughter, yapped a precious little yawn extending his tiny tongue, and closed his eyes in delicious, loving slumber. My daughter was thrilled. I was in trouble. She gave me that look that landed her the kitty which produced all our slugs. It was all so cute! I foolishly uttered the dangerous word: “Maybe.” The pressure intensified. I protested that her friend already had the one she really wanted. She assured me that either of the two remaining would do. I was afraid of that. In defense I was forced to recall earlier times with the beloved dog. Times she does not remember. Times I wish I didn’t. Living in the fenceless country can present a pet problem. When our beloved dog was a pup, a nearby black dog who was so without papers decided he should hump the puppy all across the yard. Every day. It was only after the dog broke our pup’s leg that we mustered the courage to confront its owner. As soon as our pup’s leg healed, another roaming neighbor dog taught him a few of her tricks. We began finding diapers from the in-home nursery operating nearby, then shorts, and kid’s shoes. Our dog tired of this habit as soon as he discovered his true favorite. Chasing cars. Everywhere, anytime. He is not even deterred by the broken-antenna-turned-whip the garbage guys use as they drive down the road. I told my daughter about the time a stray dog stayed here for three months. We discovered that alpha dog is not charitable. He never allowed the new dog to eat. These tales did not convince my daughter that we shouldn’t get another pooch. They convinced me. MARY ANN FITZMORRIS writes this column regularly for L’Observateur.