Sunday morning I was informed that Pop, the surviving member of the O’Hara hermit crab duo “Lolly and Pop”, had died. No one is sure exactly when he died. The only detail I got was that when his body was discovered, it was moldy. We’re guessing it’s been about a week, which is odd because I thought it was someone’s job to feed it every day.
I make no bones about the fact that I am missing the “pet” gene. Whatever it is that causes other people to enjoy having pets … I just don’t have it. I don’t get the pleasure that others do out of feeding animals and cleaning up their poop. I wish I did, I just don’t. I don’t mind if you want to do it, I just don’t get it. Then again, if you want to draw a list up I’m sure there are puh-lenty of things that people don’t get about me, either. Let’s call it a draw and move on.
Earlier this year Morgan got a dog for her birthday. As far as I can tell, the dog spends all of her time either inside sleeping in her cage, or outside barking at the neighbor’s dogs. After work each day the kids go outside to play with the dog. This lasts until the dog scratches one of them, at which point playtime with the dog comes to a screeching (and typically screaming) halt. Each day I sit back and watch this weird ritual go on around me. Don’t get me wrong; it doesn’t bother me that this is going on around me, it’s just that I don’t care to participate in it, and it confuses me as to why anyone else would want to.
The only animal I remotely understand is our cat, Don Piano. Don-Don only comes near me when he wants petted, which is usually about twice a week. Sometimes he meows when he wants to go outside, and sometimes he meows when he wants back inside. That’s about it. I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit it and I never would have thunk it, but I guess I’m a cat person. Then again, the cat wanders off quite a bit to be by himself, so maybe I relate to him a little better.
I’m definitely not an “it” person. Any animal that’s referred to as an “it” — snakes, turtles, fish, birds, lizards, etc. — I’m not into. The only possible reason I could see for being a pet owner is to get some sort of personality out of the critter. I couldn’t care less about anything without a personality. Keeping a turtle in a box to me is like tending to a vegetable that tries to bite you when you feed it. No thanks.
The only pet I ever really wanted was a monkey. Then I went to a party at a guy’s house who had a monkey and it was awful. All the monkey did was scream and occasionally throw its poop at visitors. I’ll pass, thanks. Besides that guy, the only other person I knew with a pet monkey was Michael Jackson.
Thinking back, I really enjoyed our two pot-bellied pigs. It’s been a long time since Polly Porkchop died and we had to get rid of Gidget the Midget, but they were both smart animals. Both did tricks and came when you called their name and slept in bed with us. If I ever get a vote again, maybe our next pet will be a pig.
As for Pop … well, it was Flush City, I believe. No tears were shed, so that’s good. Wow, I just had a great idea. I’m wondering if I can flush the dog, frame the cat, and after the cat is arrested, get a pig? I’ll work on it.
I’ve met the cat. The cat’s way too smart for that.
Your only hope is that the cat doesn’t decide that your prospective future pig’s name is Sir Francis Bacon.
Nice pet essay. My family always had pets around when I was a kid (usually a dog and two cats) and I liked them being there. But honestly, my parents did all the work. With a fenced backyard, you just open the door to let it out. Open the door awhile later to let it in. Feed & water. When it gets old, you go to the vet a lot and spend bunches of money.
As an adult though? Sometimes I feel stirrings of thinking a pet would be cool. Maybe a smallish dog or a large, smart rodent (cats are out, allergic). Then I get more reasonable, and there’s no way. The novelty of playing with a pet wears off after a few minutes, since they’re very limited creatures. They can’t tell you crazy stories or play videogames with you. It’s the coolest when they spazz out, but that’s harder and harder to induce as they age.
And in the city, you can’t just open the door and let ’em out. You have to put pants on, go down six stories, in the dark, (often freezing) for a 10-20 minute walk every night. And then another walk early the next morning. Which is also cold. And a couple more in the mid-day that you have to somehow make happen, via employee usually. Bladders don’t sleep. There’s a reason why indoor plumbing is a highly-coveted feature in housing. If you can’t work a toilet, you’re in trouble. Dogs are stuck in the 1800s, using the outhouse. They’re Luddites!
And forget mobility, ‘cuz pets can’t be left alone to open a freezer and use the microwave. Which means kenneling (if you can find one! on holidays!) and $$$.
Yeah, no freakin’ way. Kudos to you if you can make it work, but I’ll just enjoy the occasional Scooby Doo cartoon and live my life.