There are three dogs, a parakeet and a cockatiel living at our house and I’m responsible for the care of both birds and one of the dogs. These animals are all very dear to me, but I did not choose any of them to be my pets.

In fact, the last pet I remember choosing for myself was an ornery pinto pony that I nagged my dad into buying for me when I was about 10. That horse ate up nearly every dime I ever earned from after-school jobs and baby sitting. And he nearly made my Methodist preacher father lose his religion.

I named him Amigo, which means friend in Spanish, and it took me a long time to figure out he was so not my friend. Amigo liked to break out of every place I ever kept him and he escaped as often as possible. Our neighbors became like a Crimestoppers network, watching for Amigo to zoom by on his illicit outings. If they spotted him, they would phone us and my dad and I would have to find, corner and capture the frisky beast, which seemed to find these incidents quite fun. My father, however, was not amused.

When I was in sophomore in high school, we moved across town and had no place to keep the Houdini horse, so I had to sell him. After that I didn’t want any pets. Then I started to college and got married and my husband and I moved to the Midwest. He always had hunting dogs, but he took care of them. Four years after we married, we started a family and eight years later we had five children. I had all the companionship I could handle then. No pets needed, or allowed. Especially in the house.

But then we moved to a farm and suddenly there were pets everywhere. We had dogs, puppies, geese, rabbits and Chirkens – a kind of chicken you should never try to raise where winter temperatures drop below zero. Two of our girls had ponies and, for awhile, one of them had a pet pig that followed her around like a trained dog.

We had goats too, but I refuse to classify goats as pets. A goat is nothing but a big nuisance with teeth and if you love goats do not contact me and try to discuss this. My mind is made up about it. Our oldest son thinks even less of goats than I do. He always got the job of getting the baby goats’ heads out of the fence when they got their horns stuck from trying to eat weeds on the other side.

Goats will chomp, up or down, everything in sight – especially anything you don’t want them to eat. Ours ate my husband’s best friend’s prized grapevines down to the dirt and had the roots for dessert. A goat’s stomach can digest anything it can chew. I never saw ours eat tin cans, like goats do in cartoons. But I bet they could have.

So, we had a passel of children and an even bigger passel of pets. But the children were taught to look after their pets. And they did – except for the ones they gave me.

When we moved back here from Illinois, my no pets-in-the-house rule was still in force. But right after our youngest daughter graduated high school and was still living at home she brought home the cutest pair of finches. In no time there were baby finches. Then there were so many finches we finally (and luckily) found a wonderful new home for all the babies and their parents. After that, she brought home Pedro, a cockatiel she bequeathed to me when she got married. I was traumatized when Pedro later died, of a tumor, in my lap.

Next I acquired our parakeet, Periwinkle, aka Perry J. Winkle, aka Perry. (Sometimes he calls himself Perri-Perri), which the same daughter saved from a friend’s child who wasn’t taking care of it. Meanwhile, our middle daughter who had been living in New Orleans came home with a cat named Mojo and a dog named Izzy. Izzy got along great with my husband’s Gordon Setter, Turk. But the cat was a new wrinkle. Did you notice in the list of farm animals above that cats were not mentioned?

My husband and I were never cat people, and neither were our parents, or their parents. But, this cat was dear to our dear daughter. She rescued him from certain death as a newborn and they were totally bonded. He would even mind her commands. So, Mojo got to stay and even slept in her room. I got so attached to him that I cried when he died years later.

Hobo, the cockatiel that now keeps Perry J. company at our house, fell at my husband’s feet while he was taking his daily walk several years ago. He brought the bird home and fed it some of Perry’s seeds. The poor thing ate for 20 minutes. We tried to find its owner, and when we couldn’t, my husband named him Hobo, because he was homeless, and he joined our menagerie.

A few months ago I inherited Brandy, my dad’s dog, when Dad was no longer able to keep her. But he gets to visit her often at our house, where I take care of three pets I didn’t choose, but have been happy to make part of our family.

 

Linda Seubold, editor of Entertainment Fort Smith Magazine, can be reached at lindaseubold@efortsmith.com. Read her archived columns and articles online.

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