Sunny

Mike's post last week about got me thinking about some of my old pets. My family is big of animals, so growing up we always had something crawling around our house. The first pet I can remember was my parents cat Kitty-Witty. Kitty-Witty pre-dated my sister and I , so by the time I met her she was an old lady. She did a lot of lurking. Now that I think about it, she was less of a "pet" and more of a "presence" in our household (not much fun). So I don't count her as my first pet.

We had a pet duck named Daffy for a few days--but he doesn't really count either because we had to give him up.

I guess I consider our first dog Cherokee to be my first "real" pet.

We got Cherokee because my parents were worried my sister and I were afraid of dogs. So to cure this fear they decided to get us one. While I appreciate their intentions, I shudder to think what they'd have done if they'd know that we feared clowns MUCH more than we feared dogs. I can almost see it, we'd have just come home from school...our parents sit us down...a leering clowning "honking" his nose in the corner of the room.

My father would have said something like:

"Jason, Amber...we have something for you! His name is Bubbles and we want you to make sure you feed and brush him every day."

*HONK-HONK*

I guess it's good we kept our clown-phobia a secret.

Anyway, they got us a dog.

Cherokee was a Golden Lab, which is hands-down my favorite type of dog. Labs are just great overall, a little on the destructive side as puppies (but aren't we all?), but great with people. Cherokee quickly wiggled her way into our hearts, and my sister and I were free of dog-anxiety. The next pet I got was a pair of gerbils I named Mario and Luigi (after my two favorite Italian plumbers). Once they met a sad fate (tails cut off by psycho kid next-door) I got Sunny.

Sunny was a Red-Eared Terrapin. I named him (at least, I assume it was a him...telling the sex of a turtle is tricky for a small child) "Sunny" because the sign on his aquarium at the pet shop said he hailed from Florida.

Where it's sunny. Get it?

This is roughly what Sunny looked like.

Anyway, Sunny was great but he freaked me out. When you pick up a little turtle like Sunny they tend the swipe at you with their feet. It doesn't hurt, but it felt strange and one time he did this to me I dropped him inside our house. Now, whatever lies you've been fed over the years about turtles being slow are false. Let me assure you that Sunny was a SPEED DEMON when he wanted to be.

He landed on the floor with a plop! and bolted towards the bar in our kitchen. My Uncle David was visiting at the time, and he managed to quickly bend down and snatch Sunny up before he could crawl underneath (and be lost forever)--but it was at a high cost.

For you see, David spit the ass of his pants out...

That Sunny was a real rebel.

He didn't care who's pants he ruined.

I used to dig up worms for him to eat and then watch him slurp them up like fat, writhing spaghetti. Because he was from Florida, Sunny lived mostly in the water, but he did have a big piece of quartz that he liked to climb up on. For the most part, Sunny was a fun, unoffensive pet--however there was one problem with Sunny.

He stunk.

Or rather, he stunk up his water. The water in his aquarium needed to be changed, and it was pretty gross (what with his turtle poop floating around in it). My mother, bless her, was the one who ended up doing this nasty bit of work. In fact, my Mom got stuck taking care of pretty much all of our pets after a while. I guess this is why we never got a pet without Mom's approval. She knew she'd be the one to take care of it, so unless she agreed it was a no-go.

Sunny became stinker and stinker as time went by, and eventually I knew that I was too old to have my mother cleaning-up after my turtle. I figured he'd die and I'd be off the hook--but reptiles live FOREVER--so instead I ended up giving Sunny to a neighborhood friend just before we moved away.

I never saw him again, but I like to think he had a pretty good ride. In fact, he's probably still alive...pooping and swiping. I'm serious, think twice before buying a reptile as a pet. Really be prepared to go in for the "long haul." There are turtles that are over 100 years old! Imagine all the pants they've ruined in that century!!!

So little Jimmy/Susie: I know you want that pet turtle, and you say you'll take care of him--but I know what'll happen...you'll enjoy him for a few decades and then get bored.

Our Duck, Daffy (Or Why We Shouldn’t Use Advanced Genetic Engineering to Create Velociraptor Gardeners)

One of the most memorable parts in Arthur C. Clarke’s otherwise forgettable 1997 novel, 3001: THE FINAL ODYSSEY, occurs when the protagonist (the dude HAL9000 killed by severing his tether, thus dooming him to float off into space) first begins to explore the year 3001. Among the many outrageous things that have changed since astronaut Frank Poole’s time are: BrainCaps—devices which plug the human brain directly into computers, a series of “space elevators” that connect orbiting space stations to the Earth, and women now prefer men who’s privates are more…say “natural” (there are no circumcisions in the year 3001, though one woman explains that there are some women who have a kink for this “deformity” Poole has).

Oh, yeah—and they have FUCKING VELOCIRAPTORS AS SERVANTS.

I can’t recall all the details (it’s been 10 years since I read this novel) but Poole is in some kind of garden, and what walks casually around the corner? A RAPTOR! Poole hilariously freaks out (the author reminds us that Poole saw JURASSIC PARK as a young child) but everyone else is calm.

“Why are you freaking out, Frank? It’s just the gardener.”

Indeed. If only we lived in a world of such exotic pets—though of course, we do. I know people with pet snakes, rats, birds, turtles, frogs, dogs, and cats. Those last two might not sound very exotic, but people keep all sorts of rare/unusual breeds of both canines and felines. My wife and I participated in a community walk when the Department of Transportation re-opened Interstate Highway-64 out here in Saint Louis. The most memorable part of this walk? Was it walking a brand-new-never-driven-upon stretch of highway?

No. It was seeing the massive Irish Wolf-hound that someone had with them.

This animal was a massive beast, truly a sight to behold. Hardly a normal little “puppy.” Last month, my wife and I took our dog Rusty downtown to participate in the annual Marti Gras Pet Parade (sponsored by Purina Pet Food). Since it was a “pet” parade there were more than just the usual dogs/cats—one lady had a miniature horse with her! Growing up, my family had a revolving door of pets—gerbils, cats, dogs, even a turtle. But the strangest pet I ever had was our duck, Daffy.

I remember waking up and it was dark outside, when we first got Daffy. I think that it was late at night, but perhaps it was just very early in the morning. Either way, it was pitch-black in our house…when there was a knock at our door. My Dad’s cousin was at the door, with her boyfriend/husband (I can’t recall which he was at the time). They had a large, wicker picnic basket with them. Apparently they’d been out (as one does) and caught a duck (again, as one does). So far all very much on the up and up, wouldn’t you agree? But rather than keep this duck for themselves, they had come to give it to my family.

I should stop for a moment and explain that, while most of my father’s family lived in what I would consider to be the “country,” my family lived in a modest ranch-house in the middle of Raytown, Missouri—a dismal (even then, in the 1980’s) suburb of Kansas City. We had a large backyard (though I suspect not as large as I remember) but not enough land to keep “barnyard animals” like a duck.

Still, my sister Amber and I DID have one of those floppy-sided plastic kiddie pools you see at Wal-Mart during the long dog-days of summer.

My parents, being the progressive/animal-loving-types that they are, accepted this gift and became the proud pet parents of one Mr. Daffy Duck. Daffy was pretty small in body, but large in feet. I remember thinking his feet looked like those flippers scuba divers often wear. The first thing we did was put Daffy in the pool in our backyard. He happily quacked and swam endless circles around the edgesl. Our family cat, Kitty-Witty, was a bit of a worry. We did our best to keep her away from Daffy during his time with us, but this proved difficult (natural predatory urges being what they are).

I can distinctly recall one day when I was outside, watching Daffy swim—when off in the distance I spotted Kitty-Witty slinking through the grass with her head low. Once the cat was chased off, I decided to get some bread and toss it at Daffy, which was fun for both of us.

It seemed that Daffy was going to be a part of our family, when a neighbor informed us that keeping ducks as a pet was illegal in the city. Worse, he told my parents that it wasn’t good for Daffy.

I’m not sure if they’d known this all along and were just giving my sister and I an interesting pet for a few days—or if they truly thought we could keep him. Either way, my parents decided to take Daffy and re-introduce him to the wild. We drove to Lake Jacomo where my family sadly deposited him back into the natural world. From then on, my family would periodically gaze skyward and ask “I wonder where Daffy is?”

Sadly, I now know that human beings can’t take a wild animal “in” and then put it back “out” into the wider-world. Doing so nearly always equals death—so Daffy probably died, either of starvation (no one was there to throw bread at him) or someone killed him (because he wasn’t afraid of people).

We as a species are approaching a dangerous point in which, through science, we will be able to engineer Velociraptor gardeners…though we really shouldn’t. People shouldn’t do anything to nature but leave it the hell alone. I mean, what if someday we DO get our VELOCIRAPTORS GARDENDERS? And say something terrible happens (like a nosy neighbor) and we have to go put them back in the wild—who will be there to throw bread at them?