I have a photo on my cellphone of a small dog in the arms of a woman I don’t even know. I met them a few years ago at a campground and I asked the woman if I could take a picture of her dog because it reminded me of one my family had when I was growing up.
Bernie was part chihuahua and part who knows what and if I close my eyes I can still see her, her whole backside wagging when she greeted me. I do have photos of Bernie, but they’re tucked away in albums. So yes, I keep a picture of someone else’s dog on my phone. But I’m only admitting it so that you’ll believe me when I say I truly love dogs.
Knowing this, you may wonder why my husband and I never got one for our son when he was growing up. He wonders too. But just because he never had a dog doesn’t mean he never had pets. Boy did he have pets. Turns out I’m a pushover for critters.
May is National Pet Month, a time to celebrate pets and chumps like me who can’t say no to them. So I’d like to introduce you to the ones my son talked me into.
His first three pets were accidental. We’d gone to a school carnival where some well-meaning folks who, because of their love for children and disregard for parents, were giving away goldfish. He won pets number one and two by tossing a ring on a bottle or some other equally impressive feat. But I suspect he could have had them by saying, “Me! Me!” at the close of the carnival when organizers were begging people to take the leftover fish.
Despite our best efforts, the fish only survived three days. You might think I’d learned my lesson. I’d think so too. But a year later, we got goldfish number three in much the same way. Alas it didn’t last any longer than the first two had.
I was reluctant to bring pet number four into our home but I was glad I gave in. I was very fond of Monsieur Hamstie—probably fonder than most people are of rodents. Hamstie was, as you might have guessed, a hamster. And when he went to that Great Hamster Wheel in the Sky, we replaced him with pet number five, an equally adorable hamster named Bobo.
Pet number six was Mr. Tweeters, and if you guessed he was a bird, you’re right again. Despite my initial reluctance to adopt him, I fell for him too. He never perched on my finger like canaries on YouTube do, but he did sing to me while I worked. Or at least I liked to think he was singing to me. More likely he was singing to attract a girlfriend. I suppose he had reason to be hopeful considering how easily I’d been persuaded to take in three fish and two hamsters.
My husband assumed that once we were empty nesters there would be no more pets for me to bond with. But our son hadn’t been out of the house long when he rescued pet number seven, a kitten named Bastian. He kept it at his apartment until he moved and then Bastian moved too—in with us. I changed his name to Sebastian. I figured that was my prerogative since I was now responsible for feeding him and paying the vet bills.
There was a pattern in the acquisition of all of these pets: I was reluctant. I caved. And then I fell for them—except for the goldfish. They didn’t live long enough for me to bond with them and I’m not sure I would have anyway. The point is, I’m a sucker for critters, which is exactly what you’d expect from someone who keeps a photo of another woman’s dog on her phone.