One summer, three deaths (pets), and the chaos of family living

(From my original Blogspot)

This post ended up being a chapter in my book "Living with Animals."

This summer has been a tough one for some certain members of our household. Don’t get me wrong; the kids have gotten along fine. They haven’t fought more than usual or had any major illnesses. It is the smaller creatures that dwell among us that have had a rough go of it.

We’ve had more than our share of pet “incidents” lately. You see, our family has been big pet owners over the years. At times I’ve brought my friends into shock by merely listing the current roster of our pets. At any given time we may own a cat, two lizards, a parakeet, an iguana, some fish, and a cage full of mice. Other times it has been indigenous frogs, a mentally unstable dog, two gerbils (one pregnant), and a hermit crab. The players in this game change frequently, but there are always at least a few pets around.

Things started off innocently enough this spring. My son had been housing two large Spiny Lizards for almost a year, and I was tired of driving to the pet store to buy their crickets. So I decided it was time for Larry and Larry to go reunite with Mother Nature.

My son and I lugged the lizards’ ten-gallon glass aquarium into the back yard and gingerly tipped it on its side, inviting the inmates to take their chance. The lizards tentatively popped their heads out, eyes darting around, and slowly, cautiously picked their way forward. Then the bigger lizard of the two headed confidently to a large stucco column and had a sudden brilliant idea. He started climbing. He climbed and turned and climbed some more. What was he thinking? Dumb lizard, the ground was where the crickets were. The ground was where shelter was. But he went up, not stopping until he was only a couple of feet away from the highest peak of our house, nearly thirty feet high. His companion in captivity hesitated only a moment, and then followed him. After living together for so long, they made joint decisions. After reaching a suitable place, at least in their minds, they settled in on the nubby tan stucco.

So there they were and there they stayed. Every morning my son or I would race outside and throw our heads back to look up, thinking today was the day that the lizards would realize they were free. We would yell our report to the other, “Still up there!”

Eventually, the smaller lizard figured matters out and disappeared. But the larger one held on strong. After a few more days, the inevitable happened. Captivity had ruined Larry’s senses and dulled his thoughts. One morning I stepped out on the back porch, and was confronted by something shriveled and gray as I stepped. “Hey kids! Larry finally came down!” He was dead, of course. He died because he forgot how to forage. He forgot how to listen to his instincts. The inner voice that spoke to him was snuffed out in his cage of glass. The lizard was not the only pet whose instincts were messed up in my house that year. --

Hiring a young neighbor to “watch” things while you are out of town is a risky proposition. You see, not all neighbor boys are created equal. Some have parents who hover over them and check up on their every movement. And then some have parents who send them out to do their jobs and figure life will teach them if they fail. Our neighbor boy must have been in the second category when we hired him to feed the cat.

Easy ten bucks to earn. Just come every other day and feed the cat. The food is located in the house. Here is the garage code. Just come and make sure she has enough to eat and drink. Hope you don’t mind. Thanks so much. Tell your mother hi.

We left town in confidence that all would be well. Came back a week later. We walked in and were greeted by a stink, and I mean a big stink. What is going on in here? And what was that black fluff that just walked by? The cat! Has she been in here the whole time? I’m gonna kill somebody!

Yes, the cat, our out door cat, had been let inside. We still aren’t sure what portion of our communication to the neighbor boy went wrong. OK. The big questions: where did she do her business, and what did she eat?

The next few hours proved a great opportunity to learn some miscellaneous trivia. Did you know that a laundry basket full of clean clothes could double as a litter box? Did you know that a cat produces huge amounts of urine when left for days at a time with an open toilet? Nasty stuff can drip out of the slits in laundry baskets, and that smells bad. It can take two or three days to completely eradicate additional odors.

What did she eat, and by the way, where is the bird? I can add one plus one. Things are making sense now. The cat took care of business, that’s what she did. We vacuum up the feathers and clean out the cage. We find stray feathers in every corner. I try to imagine the fight that must have taken place here. How does a cat get a bird out of a cage? Let’s examine the progression of events. First, the cat has to realize her situation is desperate. Second, a terribly evil idea must enter her head wherein she envisions a forbidden event. Next, she has to somehow proceed to the birdcage and tip it over, working the sliding door open. Finally, she would snake her paws and claws through the opening and grasp her prey. I wished I had a surveillance tape.

But the cat was not the only one capable of wicked ideas. As the highest-ranking member of the animal kingdom, I am capable of hideous, predidacious thoughts. I woke up early the next morning, and without asking or telling, put my plan into effect. “Here kitty!” I called out. She came eagerly to me, naive of my Jekyll and Hyde change of heart, and I quietly caged her against her will. I pursed my lips tight and drove a straight line to a nearby farm. With an askance glance, I made sure nobody saw me as I released her into the cornfield. I dusted my hands off as she trotted into the tall corn leaves. There will be plenty of mice to catch. --

While on summer vacation at the old Mitchell homestead, Grandpa brought our dog to me in concern. He was the first one to notice that something was wrong. Our dog would often sit by his feet under the old tree out back and relax in the shade, at times bouncing up to chase after a bug or a smell in the breeze. But now she could hardly move. Neither crackling leaf nor delicious stench could budge her. Her backbone stood out sharply, and her head hung low. Being a self-proclaimed “good” pet owner, I appropriately panicked. Think, think, think. We’d been visiting for several days. Had she been eating and drinking? I hadn’t paid that much attention. Suddenly I was kicked into dog-care mode. I spread a towel for her, spooned water down her mouth, and talked softly. “You are a good doggy.”

Decisions came quickly. Honey, remember all of those times we have made fun of people who run their pets into the vet and spend hundreds of dollars on them? Remember how we have laughed at those suckers? Like your aunt who spent thousands on her bird, and our friend who just had to save their iguana’s leg? Now we have to decide if we are suckers or not. Who are we? We had a sudden identity crisis to overcome. We’d sure hate to spend four or five hundred dollars on this dog. But how can you put a price tag on love? Yes dear, I agree, if it weren’t for the kids I, too, would just let her go. But the kids would be devastated.

We took her to the vet the same way some people stop by the used car lot: just checking things out, no commitments. The vet soon discovered that our pooch had swallowed a marble: you know, the basic marble every kid has played with, made of greenish glass, complete with a blue wave running through it. X-ray and barium enema revealed that such a marble had become lodged in her small intestine. Just imagine the internal havoc. Emergency surgery would be required, compete with a two-day hospital stay, intravenous fluid, antibiotics, and a prescription for morphine.

How do you look the vet in the face, and look your almost dead dog in the face, and then look your kids in the face, and turn down life-saving surgery? Of course got the surgery. We were suckers to the tune of $2200. The dog was brought back from her journey to the Pearly Gates. The kids were thrilled, and my husband and I reluctantly agree that we’re pretty happy about it too. ---

With kids and pets, one can never be quite sure about what happens when you are not looking. Messes have a way of mysteriously appearing even though no one made them. Kids stash things, animals deposit things.

A few weeks after the marble incident, two friends of mine were seated in my piano room on the front sofa. We visited and chatted, enjoying each other’s company. My dog saw me and bounded in super friendly. I held her on my lap as we spoke. After a couple of minutes, I smelled a waft of something rotten. I had to apologize for my hideous dog. She really needed a bath. I hastily excused myself and sent the dog outside so that we could visit in peace. The ladies smiled politely, lips stretch tightly across their teeth. They just couldn’t smell a thing. When they left, I bathed the dog.

As days went by, the stink just didn’t go away. Had the dog rubbed herself on the rug or something? How could that dog have permanently stunk up the room? I sprayed the room in Clorox and wiped and investigated, although nothing surfaced. But the answer was soon forthcoming.

Not many days later, as my husband sat playing the piano in that same room, in ran the pup. She went straight to a certain couch cushion and began scratching and sniffing and digging like mad. Why was she always bugging that couch cushion? The mysterious smell hung thinly in the air. Something was going on with this couch. My husband abandoned the piano. He decided to investigate while our dogs, like a trained law-enforcement hound, lead the way. Gingerly he lifted the cushions, not knowing what he would see. All was clear. He tipped the couch over and found nothing underneath either. Only one thing left to do: cut open the back of the couch and have a peek.

I couldn’t have done it. Suspecting that something gruesome lay in the cold, dark recesses of one’s upholstery sends shivers up my spine. What he saw as he bravely probed is probably similar to what a tomb raider might find while committing a crime. After some rattling and thumping inside the couch, he extracted a 2-½ foot dead iguana, perfectly crispy but odiferous nonetheless. “Honey! You are not going to believe what was in the couch!” What then followed was a furious recollection of time lines and previous iguanas owned. After totally examining the data, and verifying our memories, we concluded that this iguana was one that had “ran away” three years. Yes, three years ago.

How many family meetings had we held on that couch, while all the time a very large and desperate iguana was sending out silent communications aimed at us? How many guests had cozied up for a nice visit, only to be sitting millimeters away from a reptile carcass?

Like many good unsolved queries, it will remain a mystery to me why this iguana didn’t stink for so long. Someday I’ll corner a biologist and discuss the matter. I’ve always wondered why the dog has been so fond of that couch. I don’t think my lady friends liked it too much when I told them what dark creature had colored our visit with his smell.

My sister-in-law, who has no children and certainly no pets, indignantly remarked, “I hope you are getting rid of that couch!” I am sure that while she spoke, visions of violated sanitary rules danced in her head. No, the couch will remain, disinfected and ready. Ready for more good times with our growing children and their entire herd of pets. Ready for stray pennies, popcorn hulls, and half-eaten lollipops. Ready for discarded homework, cell phone chargers, and a stray crust. Someday this house will stand quietly, too quietly, when the children and their little animal companions are gone. But for now I cherish the messes that come with the territory, including emergency surgeries and random carcasses. I’d do it all again.