Originally published July 2008
“Peanut, can you come out and play?” I asked my poodle-mix as I knocked on the door of the mailbox. The hinged door burst open and Peanut jumped into my arms, tail wagging and tongue licking. I giggled and hugged my pet, then stuffed him, hind-end-first back into the box, and repeated our game. This “pet” trick was my first foray into understanding that animals could be friends.
My connection to furred and feathered creatures began in early childhood and has sustained me over the course of my lifetime. Much to the distress of the man I’m married to, whose plea, “Please, no more” goes unheeded, I cannot live without animals. My standard response to a new addition is, “It’s not my fault! It needed a home.” In truth, I need the animals as much as they need me.
Princess, a black, tan, and white border collie was the first dog I recall having in my life. I’m told my father, whom I never knew due to his death (along with my mother’s) when I was just a year old had much the same affinity for animals. Apparently he raised white German Shepards. Whatever happened to his beloved pets I’ll never know; but my father’s legacy of loving animals lives on in me.
As a child I acquired animals any way I could. Wanting a baby chick, I took an egg from our fridge, wrapped it in a towel and placed it on a heating grate overnight, sure to awaken the next morning to a cute bundle of soft feathers. My disappointment was great, but I eventually learned how baby chicks come into the world. To this day I maintain a flock of chickens. Walking through woods I would happen upon a nest of newborn bunnies. “Abandoned!” I reasoned. I scooped them up with the intent of saving their lives. Of course they didn’t survive. Animals dying was a fact I I learned repeatedly over the years.
I never did become adept at keeping very young, orphaned animals alive. What I am good at is the ability to help injured animals, decide to end their suffering if needed, and to provide dignified disposal of the dead. I do this task with detachment and compassion. It was Peanut who first taught me how to cope with loss and tap into that most necessary emotion – grief. Before my sophomore year in high school, I moved with my grandmother to her 60-acre farm. Peanut, my loyal companion, provided solace to me in unfamiliar surroundings.
Arriving home from my new school one day, I let Peanut outside. Calling him and receiving no response I went looking for him. Our house sat atop a hill quite a ways from the busy major highway; Peanut wouldn’t have gone all the way down to the road, would he? With trepidation, I trekked across the lawn. There, in the middle of the road I saw a pile of white fur. In horror I rushed to my pet. What I found was a mass of fur, intestines, bones, and blood – a vision that would haunt me. In utter despair I frantically thought what to do. I trudged up the hill, retrieved a shovel, and went to scrap what was left of my adored pet off the unforgiving highway.
When my grandmother arrived home she found sitting in shock. I ran to her arms and cried until I was spent. For weeks I mourned Peanut. I worried my grandmother but eventually came out of my grief. From that time on I can move past the instinctual aversion to seeing blood and guts in order to come to the aid of an animal.
My poor, overworked grandmother tried to staunch my hobby of pet collecting. One tactic involved saying I was allergic to them. Perhaps I was, but having animals to love meant more to me than comfort. Over the years I’ve developed ringworm, been infested with ticks and fleas and inhaled plenty of pet dander. I am fully aware of the annoyances caused by having just one pet, much less the menagerie I maintain. How much simpler my life would be without the need to vacuum twice daily, mop floors to catch errant pet hair, not to mention the thousands of dollars spent of food, vet care, and medicine I could have put away for retirement.
Yet, as I stroke the head of Ivy, a recent acquisition plucked from dangerous busy streets, dodging vehicles and biting her rescuer, I cannot help but feel gratitude at having her in my life. I wonder what her history is, what original name is, what lessons have they learned about humanity? I vow to make the rest of their life as pleasant, safe, and secure as possible.
One of my greatest joys is witnessing the turnaround of a feral animal into one that learns to trust me, allowing me to give it physical affection. That doesn’t always happen, of course. The two-dozen wild cats on my property (after trapping them for a visit to the vet) tolerate my presence, eat the food I provide, but keep their distance. It’s the rare brave one that ventures close enough that gives me a deep sense of pride. It is this skill, letting the animal dictate the terms of interaction that has allowed me to tap into that patience that eluded me as a young girl. If one allows me the privilege of a touch, I am rewarded with the greatest gift.
In the second half of my life I envision a time when I finally give in to my husband’s pleas for a pet-free environment. Maybe I’ll take a break, live a life less complicated. Then again, the reality is there are too many animals in the world in need of rescuing and not enough rescuers. I realize that I have found the purpose of my life. I am here to help animals.
Peanut and Princess are only memories now, yet their presence lives on. Through their generosity, their unconditional love, their need to be needed, I have found solace in an often lonely life. Animals have taught me so much and as long as I have breath in my body, they will have a home in my heart.