For as long as I’ve lived I’ve enjoyed the company of the furred, four-legged friends known as pets, and some of my earliest memories are of being surrounded by animals. I can remember each of the dogs and cats that played around my house when I was growing up; and I remember loving them as if they were people. To this day, in my opinion stroking a purring Calico or wrangling a chew toy out of the mouth of a German Shorthair beats out watching television or participating in a UFC cage match any day.
When it comes to animals, I like to think that I’m a pretty loving person. And, as with most things in my life, I’d like to say that I’m accepting. That being said, there are some animals that I just don’t care for. For the most part, anything with fur is fine. Cats, dogs, gerbils, for example. Mice and rats are out, but a dingo or kangaroo would probably be okay. What I don’t care for are the scaled pets, or anything with fins. If it looks like it should be crawling around a desert it’s probably not for me; and anything that doesn’t breathe air is an across-the-board no. Fish are a lot of work with very little reward, and why, I have to wonder, would someone want to keep a pet in the house that could strangle or poison you, or give a person salmonella? That’s right, I’m looking at you, snakes and lizards.
My preference for the more pedestrian pets comes from the fact that I am, admittedly, a boring person. For someone who derives as much excitement out of washing clothes as others get from skydiving, anything beyond a kitten or a puppy may very well kill me. While the whimsical notion of raising and befriending something like a tiger or a jaguar might seem like a neat idea on paper, I know that in reality the end would be less of a Disney movie and more of a Discovery Channel scare special.
But, in addition to my being dull, life has taught me a few lessons about how animals can’t be trusted.
My first brush with animals occurred when I was maybe five or six, when my parents and grandmother brought me to a petting zoo. The day was nice, with a sun that shone down with all the warmth of a hug, and I was enjoying seeing all the different animals. There were horses and goats, and, like a misogynist executive with a secretary, my hands were busy petting everything in sight. Things were fine until I was handed a small plastic cup full of seeds to give the animals. We were near the deer pen, and when I took out a little palmful of food and stuck my hand up to the fence, one of the deer bit me. The deer didn’t leave much of a mark, and, looking back, it probably didn’t even hurt that much, but I started to cry nonetheless. What else is there to do when you’re five years old and get attacked by what appears to be a wild animal the same size as your living room sofa?
The next instance didn’t come until later, when I was in my twenties. Up until I was twenty-three, my animal experiences taught me that, yes, sometimes cats could scratch you, and occasionally dogs would bark, but it wasn’t until I met Ralph, a tank-sized dog belonging to my friends Ann and Bill, that I learned things could go further. When I first met Ralph, we were in the confines of Bill’s small living room; Ann and Bill had other guests over, and so the place felt crowded even though there were no more than six of us in the entire place. Ralph was barking at me — the same barks that are understood not as “Hey, friend, let’s go throw a ball around,” but rather, “If Ann and Bill were not here, I would murder you and bury your remains in the backyard.” I edged my way over to the couch and sat down, where I remained, quiet and statuesque, until the end of the evening. Occasionally Ralph would brush up against my leg, letting me pet him, but if I tried to, say, go use the bathroom, he would make me think he was going to kill me.
The next time I came over, Ralph was there, cavorting with Ann and Bill and then acting like I was a burglar. Ann was making dinner, but until then I was sitting in the living room, watching TV with Bill. I’d learned from my previous visit not to make any sudden moves, with the word “sudden” translating to “at any speed with which you appear not to have been filmed in slow motion.” When Ann yelled that dinner was ready, Bill got up from his recliner, and I slowly pushed my way up from the sofa. Ralph was following Bill, and so I thought I was safe until I tried stepping past him to get into the kitchen.
I heard a bark and saw Ralph’s blurred shape rise up at my side. I felt his teeth graze my upper arm just as I heard Ann and Bill cry out, “Ralph! Bad dog!”
For a second I thought he had actually bit me, and had I not become so adept at holding my bladder in Ralph’s presence, I probably would have peed myself. But, as it was, Ralph’s teeth had just scratched me, and no real damage was done. Still, as Ralph was led away and placed into his cage at the back of the house, I was more than a little shaken. The rest of the evening was uneventful, save for Ralph’s distant moans and whimpers, unrepentant and not understanding, as if he were the one wronged.
Even after those couples brushes with the dark side of animals, I’m still in their corner. It might be tempting to throw all deer into the same category as that one who bit me all those years ago, but who hasn’t had a day when, penned up and gawked at by the public, one doesn’t want to take a bite out of somebody? I guess I can understand that. But my acceptance can only go so far; so while I’ll never champion the testing of cologne on a bunny rabbit’s eyes or the slaughter of horses for the hooves that will ultimately make so many bottles of glue, there are instances when animals are on their own. Like snakes, or lizards. Or one particular dog.
