When I was growing up, my family always had a few pets running
around the house. There was always a dog, usually a cat,
occasionally a bird, and sometimes a fish somewhere in the
house
– typically in a bowl, though sometimes in the form of a frozen,
breaded stick in the freezer.
When I was growing up, my family always had a few pets running around the house. There was always a dog, usually a cat, occasionally a bird, and sometimes a fish somewhere in the house – typically in a bowl, though sometimes in the form of a frozen, breaded stick in the freezer.
The dog was typically dopey, the cat aloof, the bird loud, and the fish, well, it just kind of floated there. Animals are great companions for children – a fact that I ignored in my own adult home until recent years.
As a child, I enjoyed playing fetch in the backyard with my labrador. He would try to retrieve anything that was thrown in the opposite direction: He could catch a tennis ball on the bounce, pick up a stick with adroitness, and scoop up a plastic bone as if he had a spatula for a tongue.
He was particularly entertaining when he tried to come in the sliding patio door with a stick in his mouth that was longer than the door opening was wide. He remained persistent as he was jarred by the repeated collision of wood and metal (“Hey, the door is open … OW! Hey, it’s still open, OW!). He couldn’t quite figure out that carrying a long stick through a tiny opening just wasn’t going to happen. As an equally dopey kid, I loved watching this routine. (Animal activists take note: no dog was harmed in the retelling of this story. He eventually got the clue that if he was to fit through the door, it would be sans stick.)
That lab was a faithful companion for many years, until he finally had to be put to sleep at the age of 13 or 14.
When I went away to college, my roommates and I had neither the time nor the inclination to have a pet. We could barely take care of ourselves much less worry about whether an animal’s vaccinations were up to date. It was enough of a hassle to change the newspaper under my roommates.
One year, though, my mom gave us a bird out of the kindness of her heart (or maybe it was because the bird screeched like a Leer jet.)
This pet was named Caca (as in cockatiel, of course). It really didn’t do anything except screech and tweet and bite any human appendage that came near her cage. Much like my roommates, it liked to look at itself in the mirror for long periods of time and eat sunflower seeds.
When we let it out of its cage, she could sit on our shoulders and poke her beak on our scalp before circling our tiny apartment a few times to scout for other nesting opportunities. Realizing that pizza boxes and pans caked with Top Ramen residue wouldn’t be good landing spots, she would always return to her cage, content to bite the hands that fed her. We eventually gave her back to my mom.
Now that I’m an adult, I like a clean home and a spot-free carpet (note to my disbelieving wife: I like a clean home, not “to clean” the home). Pets like to spot carpets.
Three years ago, when my sons were 8 and 6, we finally broke down and got our boys a “pet,” a goldfish they won at the San Benito County Fair’s carnival. Carnival fish don’t have the longevity of, say, a sea turtle, so we figured we’d get a couple months of enjoyment out of the little guy before he floated to the top of the bowl.
Three years later, our little fish is a testament to the nutritional value of the dissolved solids in Hollister’s tap water. He/she has quadrupled in size and now begs for food like a Sea World dolphin asking for fish. The best thing about it is it doesn’t spot the carpet.
In a later column, I’ll tell you about our new cat. But for now, I have to go get his paw out of the fish bowl.
Adam Breen teaches journalism and yearbook at San Benito High School. He is former editor of the Free Lance.
