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When our next door neighbor's dog had puppies, my sister and I were so enamored with them that we would spend every waking moment with them. One day, our parents had the puppies over to play in the living room, and dad said "You think you're ready for a puppy?" My sister, being only 3 at the time, said "YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!". I was much more subtle and said "This one .... I want Boots". Boots was so originally named for the patches of fur that covered her feet. The first night away from her mother, Boots slept in a box next to my bed. She howled and she cried and the only way that I could get her to sleep was by leaving my hand draped off my bed into her box so she could curl up next to it. Boots didn't leave my side for several years. She slept with me. She went camping with me. She stuck with me thru my various high school phases. Even if things weren't right between my parents and I, Boots stuck it out. When I left for college, Boots became attached to my Dad. When I would come home, though, she was all mine again. When I heard that Boots had to be put down, I cried the entire day. I couldn't be there. My Dad was too shaken up to carry her into the vet's office, so my Mom had to do it. We brought her home and buried her in the backyard next to our other dog, Sassy. I swear that I'll never forget you Boots. You were the best dog a boy becoming a man could ever want Bryan 26 Nov 2003 |
Mr. Anderson started her life as simply "kee!", which is short for "kitty", easy to yell out, and is an unmistakable "come here!", when we're looking for her. It's not her fault that we don't have cable, got sick of watching Fox (the channel that comes in) and played the dvd of The Matrix more times than I can count. So, one day while sauntering in to see if we were doing anything more exciting than during her previous lap around the house, my eyes squinted and met hers in a very 'high noon' sort of way and I said "Misssster Aaaanddersson", no where near as cool as Hugo Weaving but she doesn't know who he is. Strangely, it stuck. When we need to find her, or get her out from underneath the front porch when she comes out to help us in the yard we still revert back to "kee!" - mainly because she responds better to it and might even associate it with food or catnip or something. Either way it actually gets her to your feet. (some of the time) But it's with affection that our female cat has been dubbed "Mr. Anderson", and she seems to like the slow, drawling quality of any decent Hugo Weaving imitation from that role. When Elrond is on screen she does seem a bit weirded out, but the real test will be watching "The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" with her. The idea of seeing the actor responsible of her namesake as a drag queen, when she goes through life referred to as a boy might cause quite a kitty conundrum. But that's how we like things, and we think she does too. Craig Hatfield 26 Nov 2003 |
Clover the perfect cat came to us two years ago by a winding road of coincidences. She had been thrown out of her house in Indiana the week before Christmas- apparently she had bit at her stupid redneck hick owner when he tried to grab her roughly off a ledge. Surviving in the cold snowy outside with no front claws for several days, she found the house in the neighborhood where my friends live. My friend asked around and found the neighbor who was missing a cat. She went over there to tell them she'd found their cat, the stupid terrorist of a neighbor said "we have kids here, and she's a vicious wild animal!!!" Redneck stuck his wounded grubby finger out with a tiny scratch on it- "See? Just throw her back outside". They rescued her and took her in, but there were already three cats, a dog, a newborn baby, and my friend's husband in the last five months of his Phd there. Our future kitty was frightened of the dog, bullied by the other cats, and of course, completely displaced from what she had known as home before. The dog and one of the cats would hunt her in the middle of the night. The other cats just stared at the newcomer, daring her to move. She took up residence deep beneath their bed against the wall, coming out only at morning feeding time out of hunger. I happened to call my friend around that time musing about how my boyfriend and I were feeling ready to get our first pet together (perhaps a cat?) and that's when I heard the tale. I was obsessed, especially after she emailed me a picture of this pretty little innocent looking tiger striped darling, and drove down to Indiana 2 weeks later with my sister to bring her home. On the way back home, my new kitty sat in my sister's lap in the back seat, purring the whole way, occasionally observing out the window like a little dog, with her paws on the window sill. Well, my boyfriend and I named her Clover, and went on to get married this year, and she's the snuggliest little girlie cat ever, she rubs on you any chance she gets, and pussyfoots her way about our bed in the morning, our laps while we're eating. Yeah, a real vicious killer....
Agnes 26 Nov 2003 |
I used to go to my friends houses, play with their dogs, toss balls towards their cats, poke at the glass protecting their fish. My dad always shared stories with me about his dog, his big reddish brown dog, King, that followed him all over the country in the back of his station wagon. Mom shared stories about the ducks and chicks and dogs and cats, and once she even had a toad, that she remembered playing with as a kid growing up in a rural setting. And I am allergic to all of them, well with the exception of the toad, which is why when it was suggested to me that I purchase an anole, a type of lizard, very cheap and low maintnence type of small lizerd, I jumped at the idea. I bought special books, special vitamins, special rocks that you could plug in and warm up, special flooring, special crickets. Then I bought my very special anole, which I promptly named Chase Montgomery Anole, and brought him to his new special home. And a week later, he died. His lungs had been squished by the hot-rock that he so often crawled under, so I thought; his ribs were dark and purple where they had once been a shade of greenish-white. Spots dotted the length of his body. He felt very, very soft. Apparently, he died of a skin disease, but apparently I've never believed it myself. I've never had another pet. Andy Stevens 26 Nov 2003 |
I will never forget the day I found her. It was a tiny bird shop, in an open air cage filled with about 30 or so baby cockatiels. Watching these little clown-faced birds play was really something. A woman then came in with her 14-year-old daughter, they seemed to really know birds and were talking about the commitment of taking on another feathered pet. They were really friendly (you'll find that most bird people are), and I remember she asked me if I was going to get one, her head sort of tilted toward the cockatiels. Even though I told her I was "just looking," she came over and pointed to one bird in particular. "If you're going to get one, get this one," she told me. I wanted to know how on earth she could tell them apart, at that time they all looked the same to me. (I've since learned how). Apparently she owned 2 of this bird's cousins, and the breeder they came from was considered exceptional. "Do you want to hold her?" she was really nice. I did, but told her I had no idea how to pick up a bird. She was a willing teacher, "Put your finger down in front of her, as if your finger is a perch for her to step up on, and she'll hop up." I did as I was told, and sure enough, this beautiful little bird with the gorgeous orange cheeks and long eyelashes hopped up onto my finger. I wasn't as nervous as I thought I'd be. The next thing I knew, she was side-stepping all the way up my arm, up across my shoulder and stopped and cuddled up under my right ear. The first time a bird cuddles up on your shoulder is, for some, a life-changing experience. Just then another woman came in, and looking straight at me said, "You've got my bird!" By what she said I thought she was upset that I had 'her bird,' but the smile on her face told me otherwise. A little confused, I had no idea how to get the bird off my shoulder to give her back. "No, I was just teasing you," she told me, and came over to us. She introduced herself, 'Cheryl' told me she was the owners' daughter, and that she had hand-raised the little bird I had so completely fallen in love with. She gently took her off my shoulder and showed me how she loved to have her neck rubbed and would give kisses. When I saw that I knew I was smitten and had to take her home with me, this was THE bird. "If you promise to give her a good home, you can take her," she said to me. About $250 later (bird, cage, supplies, food and all), all piled into my Honda, the bird in a special paper bag carrier. She sat on my shoulder for 4 hours the first day, which was 9/11/94, the day before I turned 29. A dear friend had advice when it came time to name her, "Give her a name that's meaningful. Later you'll be glad you did." Coming up with a good name was tough. I had always been passionate about clouds, and I thought that if she was 'in flight' she'd be sort of cloud dancing. So I opted to name her CloudDancer, but everyone calls her CD. In fact, one of my best friend's daughter's used to say, 'come here, my little compact disc' and CD would step right up on to her finger, and is still that friendly to this day. About 8 years ago this week, my Father had passed away. I was up here from L.A., searching through the Seattle Times (the reason escapes me at present) and an ad caught my eye. It was a MISSING BIRD notice, someone had lost a beloved cockatiel in Kirkland. A few ads down the page, someone posted a FOUND BIRD notice, describing a cockatiel found in Issaquah. (Kirkland and Issaquah are cities about 5 miles East of Seattle, Kirkland is about 15 miles north of Issaquah). I called the "MISSING" ad people and told them about the "FOUND" ad, and gave them the number. They thanked me and after we hung up and I couldn't help but think about what a trip it was to find those two ads. Long story short, a few hours later my curiosity got the best of me, I had to know what happened, so I called them again. "Chirp" (isn't that a cute name for a bird?) had flown from Kirkland to Issaquah and landed on a man's head while he was in his backyard mowing the lawn. Can you imagine? They had both placed ads, but never thought the other would do the same. I have the clipping in a box somewhere, I'll have to find that one of these days. This sweet little soul has given me so much love through the years. Not only has she inspired me to help a little bird find his way home, but she has been there for me through losing my Dad and all of the circumstances that followed, including moving up here temporarily and then moving up here permanently 6 months later (driving both times with me from L.A. to Seattle, perched on my shoulder the entire time); she was such a good sport. Her preferred perch to this day is cuddled up on my shoulder, or snuggled up on my foot. And yes, she still loves to give kisses and closes her eyes in bliss when getting her neck rubbed. But then again, don't we all?
myla 26 Nov 2003 |
Almost from the very day that I moved to Mexico back in January of '99, people would warn me about the "cara de niño," the most vile, repugnant bug to burrow through God's earth. They were huge, ferocious, poisonous and UGLY, the kind of legendary beast that could make the toughest, most macho guy run away in terror, crying for his mommy. They were hard core. Of course, people down here tend to exaggerate a bit, so I decided to do a bit of my own research. I learned that the bugs were actually several different related species of crickets that roamed throughout the southwestern US, Mexico, and central America. They spend most of their lives underground, burrowing, eating roots, grubs, and rot. They are not really poisonous, but if they bite you or jab you with the spines on their legs, you'll remember it. Still, for all my research, I never got to see a live specimen. Until this spring. Late one night, my wife and mother-in-law ushered me into the back yard where they had found a cara de niño. My brother-in-law is incredibly squeamish about bugs, so as the only other man in the house it fell to me to kill the poor thing. I was pretty reluctant to do it, but knew that if I didn't, I'd never hear the end of it. The bug died. I felt guilty about having killed such a cool bug, but life went on. A couple of weeks later, one of my mother-in-law's friends stopped by with a little cardboard box. Inside was another cara de niño. She didn't know about the first one and thought that I'd never seen one before. It was big, reddish-brown, and awesome. It was also starting to chew through the box, so we dumped it out into a mason jar along with the shredded cardboard. We admired its general freakiness for a while, and then left it to its own devices in the jar. The next day, the bug had gathered the chewed cardboard into a little pile in the center of the jar. When she saw this, my wife, whose reaction had been horror beforehand, fell in love with the thing. With her on my side now, we put him in a newer, bigger container with some dirt to dig around in, a little water dish, some plants for scenery, and some food. We named him Spud, and he was officially our pet. I started emailing a few experts on the species about care and feeding, and they set me in the right direction. Spud seemed to have a pretty good thing going. Dirt, food, water, and no predators to worry about. But as time went on, my wife and I started worrying about what would happen when the time came for us to go back to the US. As it happens, that time is this Friday, but we've been planning for it all year. One of the experts sent me a permission form for bringing live insect species across the border. It seemed like a good option at first, but then we began checked the contract. Right there was a little clause on the form that said that, once studied, the specimen would be killed by immersion in alcohol. We weren't down with that, and started weighing our options. We could bring him along with us, but how would we care for him there? What if it took longer than expected to find an apartment? What about when we went to visit my parents back in Iowa, or my wife's family here in Mexico- how would it survive? It was clear, we couldn't keep Spud. In September, a friend of mine came to visit, and we decided to rent a car and go explore Veracruz. It was decided that this would be the perfect time to release Spud back into the wild. The day of the trip, we put him in an empty bottle with holes for breathing, and set out. Somewhere in the mountains, we pulled over to let him out, but my mother-in-law said that we should wait until we got to Veracruz, reasoning that if a cop saw us pulled over by the side of the road, dumping something out onto the ground, we'd have trouble. Since we had already had trouble with cops leaving the city, this seemed entirely reasonable. We moved on. We stopped in Puebla to get a bite to eat, leaving the car in a parking garage. I wrapped Spud's bottle up in my jacket and put him out of the sun. After an excellent lunch, we came back to find Spud stiff and dead in his bottle. We never found out whether he'd suffocated or overheated or what, but the little guy was gone. Returning from our trip a few days later, I buried him in the backyard. Spud was hands-down the ugliest pet I've ever had, but I won't miss him any less for that. Dave 27 Nov 2003 |
Birdie came into my life one evening towards the end of April this year. My parents saw this bunch of kids giving hell to the prettiest dove I’ve ever seen. End result: she (I’m still not sure of the gender) came home. Oh, I forgot to mention that the bird could not fly... somebody had plucked out all the much needed feathers from her left wing. Well, we hoped that her feathers would grow back soon and she would be able to fly away. For lack of anything more original, we called her Birdie. I took her to the vet, where she was given some shots after which she came right back home with me. The first few days, Birdie never stepped out of her cardboard box, and was constantly trembling. We did think of getting her a cage, but I reasoned that since she could not fly, she must at least be allowed to walk around free. And that's exactly what Birdie loved to do. She'd walk all around the house, and coo alarmingly when she wanted food or water and either of those bowls were empty. Everybody loved her, and though I've never ever had a bird before or after Birdie, I'm sure she was one the cleverest birds ever. Then, one night, tragedy struck. Birdie used to sleep under my parents' bed at night, venturing out once the day dawned. Well, on the fateful night, at about past 1 o'clock in the morning, my mom suddenly heard this frantic flapping noise and woke up........ to see something white and something black struggling on the floor. A cat had managed to slink inside through an open window and get at Birdie. The cat was driven away and Birdie did not seem to be any worse for the attack except for the loss of some feathers........ I woke up early next morn to see the horrific scene of Birdie lying in a pool of blood. There was an injury that I hadn't noticed. I took her to the vet immediately, my eyes blinded by tears. One look at the vet's face told me everything. I couldn't take it anymore. I considered it my fault that I had let Birdie walk around instead of keeping her in a cage. I took Birdie to the SPCA and left her there. I knew that she would get better care there than the best I could provide her on my own. I never could bring myself to go back and enquire about her after that. I was consumed by guilt. Three months with Birdie was enough. She was the most amazing white bundle I've ever seen. I only hope that she’s safe and fine and flying around somewhere. NJ 28 Nov 2003 |
One day when I was around 9 or 10 years old my mum came to pick me up from school with Snoopy, our gorgeous West Highland White terrier, in the car. I can't remember why but she had to get out of the car, maybe to sign a permission slip or something. It was summer time so she shut all the doors but left the window slighly open. She was only going to be a second so naturally she left the keys in the car. We came back to see Snoopy looking at us proudly, saying "Look I've defended the car from all the marauders, aren't I good?" Unfortunately he'd taken security a little too seriously... in his eagerness to press his wet nose against the windows to check for attackers he'd managed to put his paws onto the little plastic nubbin that locks the door - on both sides. So yes... our dog locked us out of the car right in front of my school. Oh the embarassment... but I just couldn't stop laughing - the look on my mum's face while Snoopy looked back so proud was priceless. Calling the mechanic to break into the car was fun, especially with the dog still inside trying to guard the darn thing. That's the last time Snoopy was left in the car alone. Jason Kitcat 2 Dec 2003 |
