My sister and I have a number of similarities, as siblings tend
to do. Our legs are really, really white and we couldn’t keep a tan
even if we lived on Mercury.
My sister and I have a number of similarities, as siblings tend to do. Our legs are really, really white and we couldn’t keep a tan even if we lived on Mercury.
We laugh at many of the same jokes, especially the inside jokes that brothers and sisters develop over the years. We also love ’80s music and enjoy making our parents feel guilty about smoking in the house when we were kids.
But, alas, we are much different when it comes to pets.
My sister is a sort of Dr. Doolittle. She has cats and dogs running around the house, fish in the kitchen aquarium, and a bird in the den. We were raised with plenty of pets, so her interest in them is understandable.
I, on the other hand, am about a low-maintenance life, from my hairstyle to my pets. Our fish require one feeding a day. My cat gets fed and watered once a day and we have to keep its litter box clean, but other than that it’s easy. None of my pets leave stains on the carpet or tear up the garden.
There’s no walking my cat around the block, no teaching it how to sit or speak (though that would be cool), no playing fetch. It minds its own business and hangs around us when it feels like it.
It doesn’t need to be petted to be happy. It decides when we can pet it or sit near it. Dogs will sit there and let you scratch their head for hours. Cats will let you rub their head for a few seconds, then they’ll either attack your hand or bolt away like they just saw a ghost … a big, scary dog ghost.
Growing up, I was attached to my pets – from Scruggles to Sammy to Parker to Grey Kitty. They were friends and companions for the whole family. They were part of the family, as pets should be.
The tough part about that closeness was losing them. Scruggles got hit by a car, while Sammy and Parker succumbed to old age. Scruggles was immediately placed in a garbage bag and now rests in peace in a Virginia landfill. Sammy is buried in what used to be the family’s orchard off Union Road.
I’m sure we buried various pets in the back yard over the years, while any fish were given a bathroom burial ceremony.
Some people go all out when a pet passes away. They buy a plot in a pet cemetery and put up a headstone. They might even visit the gravesite regularly to leave Snausages or catnip for the dearly departed.
My sister would be one of these people, preferring a state funeral to an unceremonious backyard, toilet, or dumpster burial. It wouldn’t be terribly surprising if she arranged something akin to the recent Gerald Ford tributes.
She may arrange a motorcade down San Benito Street for a cat. There might be a 21-gun salute for a bird. There could be speeches by friends remembering all the good times with a dog that is now “in a better place.”
My sister is the type of owner a pet would like to have. She greets her animals when she gets home, she feeds them well, plays with them, and lets them inside when they give her a sad face.
I discovered recently during lunch that one of her former cats was cremated and is now in an urn somewhere in her house. After nearly choking on my sun-dried tomato soup at Hard Times Cafe, I realized that didn’t surprise me, since one of her departed dogs is currently in cold storage in her garage freezer.
Yes, it’s a bit creepy and my sister reluctantly gave me permission to mention this in my column despite worrying that people might think she’s weird. I assured her that anyone who knows her already knows that she’s weird and those who don’t know her don’t matter anyway.
Tyler the pug passed away more than a year ago after a long life of bounding and sniffing and licking and barking. My sister half-jokingly referred to him as her son, and she was devastated when he passed.
So, in her grief, cryogenics apparently came to mind. Until she could figure out what do with Tyler, she decided to freeze the little guy. Hunters do it with their prey all the time, so it seemed reasonable. The original plan was to keep him preserved until he could be stuffed and mounted like a squirrel or a boar’s head.
That idea has since been nixed, so Tyler will likely be defrosted (what setting on the microwave would that be?) and cremated, joining the cat on a shelf somewhere.
Weird? Perhaps. But there’s nothing wrong with caring about an animal as if it were a member of the family. I hope Tyler receives a proper sendoff some day.
Until then, I’m not going to any barbecues at my sister’s house in case there’s a terrible defrosting mix-up.
Adam Breen teaches journalism and yearbook at San Benito High School. He is former editor of the Free Lance.
