Call me the Beast Mistress. I had a few strange pets when I was growing up. I preferred the non-domesticated ones like wild cats and ducks. I would make my Dad pick up wounded birds and put them in shoeboxes and beg him to catch squirrels too. And of course I had some normal animals, two dogs (one that my Dad drove up to the mountains and let go without telling me one day) and a cat (which my Mother ran over, but didn’t tell me about until I was 31). In spite of the fact that I should have an animal-abandonment complex by now, I can bark and meow so well that cats and dogs answer me back. I play hide and seek with them, and I can teach a dog with reasonable intelligence to go get me a beer.
Hopefully it doesn’t qualify as animal cruelty, but I used to take my hamster to the beach and let him chase me in the sand, dress my poodle in a tutu, and take my ducks for rides on my swing set (I found out the hard way that this is not something they enjoy. They WILL throw up.)
Bottom line is that I like animals. And most of them like me back in spite of what I do to them. I’m just not crazy about the idea of sleeping with them. But some people have unusual attachments to their furry friends (furry people are ok, but something tells me that I will regret saying this someday) and they can become very sensitive when others don’t feel the same way, especially if they don’t have human offspring. I think it has something to do with unconditional love.
A friend of mine has a sub-pound, two-toothed Chihuahua named Greta who I’m sure is in his will. She will only eat a certain kind of cookie and food prepared a particular way.
Greta loves my Mom, but she hates me. I can outbark her, so she must see me as competition. She pretends to be shy when her owner is in the room, but the minute he leaves, she bares her two fangs and lunges at me. I have to make nice though (as I wipe the blood off my arm). I know that if there was ever a choice, Kamikaze Greta would win the toss.
A man I once dated had a rather large Chesapeake Bay retriever. His (the dog’s) name was Rowdy and rowdy he was. He greeted me on two legs instead of on four and was taller than me standing up. He would put his front legs on my shoulders (I think he thought we were paw-mates in a past life) and look me straight in the eye (longingly). We shared our chocolate raisins and other treats (mine, not his). He got depressed whenever I left and wouldn’t respond to his master except at feeding time.
This same man had a cat too. And they all slept in the same bed with him. I had never slept with a pet before, so this was stretching my boundaries a little (a lot). I guess I didn’t realize that “must love dogs” really meant “must sleep with dogs.”
But remember, Rowdy really liked me and he never wanted to leave the bedroom when I was in it. Forgive me PETA people, but I can’t get intimate when a hundred pound dog is watching (in close proximity and very attentively, I might add, and even has that enthusiastic “I want to join in” look in his eye). I don’t want to spoon with him (Rowdy did, by the way, and also took the sheets and most of the room in the bed). And I don’t want to swallow a hairball in my sleep. Sometimes, when I was left with one solitary, hairy inch of the bed, I would sneak into the spare bedroom and catch some uninterrupted sleep, until I heard scratching and whining at the door (the dog, not the boyfriend.)
From what I heard later and long after I stepped out of the picture, the cat ran away, but Rowdy was still there (and having doggie dreams of me), so I guess there is something to be said for unconventionality.
As for me, I’ll love these creatures and I’ll feed them, pet them, dress them, and take them for walks. But I have to draw a line in the Kibbles and Bits. When it’s my time to get romantic, Rowdy needs to go chase a ball.
Mates
Image by rainyfoxy
Friendly with each other.