So, have I told you all about my pets?
No? Are you sure? Actually, I’m sure, because I just scanned my whole blog to make sure I’m not repeating myself.
One of the side effects of being a vet tech is that you collect pets like most people collect CDs. As a result I have, currently, five cats and one very large dog. Since I haven’t worked in the veterinary field for over eight years now, all of my cats are very, very old.
Introducing one baby into a house full of pets is difficult; introducing two is a little scary. My husband frequently jokes about putting down the two males cats, for various reasons, and then we’d just have three cats and a dog. At least, I think he’s joking, although earlier in the year I had to ask him to stop making jokes about the wood chipper some workmen were using on our block (like, every time one of the cats did something annoying, he’s yell, “Wood chipper!”).
So let me tell you about my lovely pets. I’ll do it in age order.
Franklin (aka Frankie): If those stories about cats sucking the souls out of babies were true (and they are so not), Frankie would be their king. He’s the oldest, at 18, a brown tabby, and the oddest cat I’ve ever owned. In his younger days (you know, back when he was 15) he developed the amazing ability to urinate directly into electrical outlets, without electrocuting himself. The smell, as you can imagine, was just lovely. He also likes to sit directly behind your head while on the couch; and I’m absolutely convinced that he’s back there draining our life force so he can live forever. We recently took him in to the vet for old cat blood work, and he’s fine, with a minor hyperthyroid issue that doesn’t even really need to be medicated. Sadly, he’s gone deaf, and he seems fairly senile. He’s also become food obsessed, and will whack your hand with his paw repeatedly until you give him something (or spray him with a water bottle, which is what I have to do in order to finish my bowl of cereal every morning). Frank is the top candidate for offing, except that he persists in having nothing really wrong with him, so I just can’t do it.
Spot (aka Tootie): Spot is a striking cat, a clearly defined calico with white being her primarily color. She’s also a bitch. She has a chronic scowl, quite literally, that makes her look unbelievably pissed off, even in those rare moments where she’s purring and happy. She screams like you’re trying to hack off a leg any time you get within a few feet of her. When I rescued her from the streets, I had to scruff her with one hand and hold her back feet with the other (leaving me to have to push myself up from the ground with my head) just to get her into the house. We had to give her kitty Valium for weeks before we could let her out of seclusion to meet the other cats (and the dog). She’s mellowed in her old age (she’s about 14) and now sometimes lets me pet her when I’m watching TV. For much of her life, the only time you could pet her was when you were on the toilet (I guess she thought she was safer then).
Fifi (aka Feefers): She is our prettiest cat, with long gray hair and big pale green eyes. She’s also, oddly, mute—by choice. When I first got her, she was always getting locked in closets and dresser drawers (because she’d bury herself in the clothes in there) for a day at a time. We’d finally notice she was missing (hey, we were drunks, people!) and try to find her. We usually found her only after we got really quiet, and then we’d hear the sad sound of her declawed paws (yes, I declawed all my cats, and on most, even did the surgery myself) trying to claw her way out of the drawer or closet. She never meows to let us know she’s stuck. She occasionally squeaks when she yawns, and she always lets out a sad howl when Frankie tries to hump her (we think he’s got a third ball he hid during his neutering). But you can step on her tail (not on purpose!) and she’ll say not a word, just try to get away, and you’ll finally hear the sad scraping of her nails against the floor… She’s about 14.
Dylan (aka Dilly): Dylan is fat. He’s white with gray spots, and is too fat to groom his own back and ass so that he constantly gets mats on the back half of his body (and he’s short haired). He’s also very whiny, each meow sounding vaguely like an old lady complaining at the deli counter. He bites your feet, randomly, when he wants to be petted. If you stop petting him, he bites your hands. He broke his back once jumping off a dining room chair (yes, I’m quite serious) and now walks in a really funny way. He enjoys going out into the back yard and acting like a small whiny ghost. He was originally my best friend’s cat, but when she went into rehab all those years ago, she left him with us, and he’s been with us ever since. He’s my husband’s favorite whipping boy, and the cat most likely to be placed in a wood chipper.
Annie (aka Banana): Annie is our baby. I got her when she was two days old when a homeless guy came into the animal hospital claiming her mother had been hit by a car. He also brought in her sister, who sadly died within the hour. Annie was so determined to survive, however, that when I offered a syringe with formula in it, she sucked it down fiercely. We didn’t name her until she was four weeks old, afraid she wouldn’t survive (kittens who don’t get colostrums from their moms often die from something as mild as a cold), and then we named her after Lil’ Orphan Annie. Because she was bottle fed, instead of kneading and purring like a normal cat, she purrs and bites our fingers. Also because she was bottle fed, she’s oddly formed, with a tiny head too small for her body and huge eyes that are completely round. She hates everyone except my husband and me and the dog. She’s a yellow-brown tabby with weird orange spots and is also growing fat enough to compete with Dylan. She also doesn’t groom her own face, but thankfully allows me to pick her nose and eyes for her. She’s nine years old.
Hammer (aka Bubba): Hammer is the dog. About seven years ago, I instituted a rule that I couldn’t pick up stray animals any more unless they were injured. While driving to work one day, I saw Hammer. We’d just lost my dog Misty a few months before, and were looking forward to being dog free for a little while. But there Hammer was, scrounging behind a dumpster. I’d never seen a dog so emaciated. He was literally a fur-covered dog skeleton. I stopped my car, reluctantly, since most emaciated dogs are pretty feral, and you can cause them to run into traffic if you try to catch them. Oh, and because he was a pit bull, and I was in a bad neighborhood known for dog fighting. Hammer, however, came right to me when I called and offered him the only food I had, a tiny 2 oz piece of cheese (yeah, I was on a diet that day). I lifted his skeletal body into my car—it was awful, the thinness—and the cheese caused him to promptly start farting. I drove the rest of the way to work, stopping on the way at an SPCA to see if they’d take him. They took one look at him and said since he was a pit bull, they’d have to euthanize him right away (my state is one of the ones that won’t adopt pit bulls out of shelters). Hammer just sat in my back seat, looking at me with unadulterated love, so I knew I couldn’t leave him there. I called my husband (who I’d only just cured of a fear of dogs) and told him the deal. I stopped at work and convinced a man in the building to come out and meet the dog to make sure that Hammer didn’t hate men. Then I drove the poor guy down to my vet who told me that he would have surely died in another few days on the street (it was the coldest February we’d had in years). The vet gave me some bland food, and we took Hammer home and began to fatten him up. We planned, originally, to find him a home, but that changed within the week. Hammer gained five pounds a week, nearly doubling his weight at the end. He’s brindled, so he had a period between emaciation and his natural body weight when people thought he was a really big-headed boxer, but that passed as his chest just got wider and wider. Now he’s about 95 lbs, and the nicest, sweetest, calmest dog I’ve ever owned. He loves everyone, and my best friend’s 60lb daughter can take him for walks and he won’t even pull on the leash. He’s the best dog ever.
Now that you’ve met them all, you can see the dilemma we have about bringing in the babies. I know all the tricks—get dolls first and treat them like real babies to help them get used to the idea of something always being in our arms; select a few daily things that the pets would miss if they stopped and be sure to keep them in your daily routine if at all possible; never leave the babies and pets alone together, etc.
There are things I won’t consider, like getting rid of them. The animal shelters are full of pets that the owners couldn’t “deal with” once there were also children (and people who are moving into a place that doesn’t allow pets—tell me something—if you have pets, why the fuck would you move into a place that doesn’t allow them????). I truly believe it’s possible to have both babies and pets. My neighbors have a dog that is way more high-strung than Hammer, and he actually allowed their daughter to use his skin as a chew toy. I know it can work.
But it’s going to be a challenge. While I’m not after any assvice, I’d love to hear about some successes if you know of any. Please!
