Pets Own You, Not the Other Way Around

For as long as I can remember I’ve been an animal lover. Pets were a mainstay at my house growing up. Early pictures of my childhood tend to involve me wearing a little red jacket with my arms laden with striped kittens. There were always cats around, whether my parents wanted them or not. At one time we ended up with fourteen cats following two litters that were born within days of each other. My brother and I loved it. I’m sure my mom was a nervous wreck.

There were dogs too, although not that many. I vaguely remember a black dog named Smokey and my Grandma had a similar one named Blackie. I don’t remember Blackie really. Just that he was buried out in the field in front of my Grandma’s old house. Smokey was a playful dog, from what I recall. He would let me and my brother sit on his back and we’d pretend he was a horse, apparently. But we were too young to really remember either of these dogs.

The first real family dog we had was Lady. I remember the day Daddy pulled up in the driveway and let that little puppy out. We were ecstatic. She was with us for a long time before old age caught up with her. There’s always that one pet you can never replace, and I’m sure Lady was that one pet for my mama.

There were also minor animals like goldfish. My brother and I each won one at a fall festival and put them together in a bowl. Brandon’s fish murdered mine somehow (at least that’s what I maintain), and it lived happily for three long years swimming in circles in that little glass bowl. I wonder if that’s some kind of record?

Goldie (or whatever its name was) wasn’t the only homicidal pet. My mom had always wanted cockatiels. I’d had three parakeets growing up but Mama didn’t get her cockatiels until I was a teenager. They came as a pair: Pete and Polly. Pete never sang much. I know now he was so quiet because he was planning Polly’s demise. We’re not sure what happened, but Polly died one day. Maybe she was stressed over coming to a new home. Maybe Pete really did kill his wife. Who knows? All we know is that once poor Polly kicked the bucket bit the cracker, Pete perked up as if he’d been given a new soul. He’s still kicking it, although he has a new roommate now. A male cockatiel we named Brody was flying around outside my parents’ house last year. Ty managed to coax him into an upstairs bedroom window. He and Pete seem perfectly happy together. No murderous tendencies noted in Pete as of yet. Maybe he’s too old for those foul plots nowadays. Or maybe he’s always been gay misunderstood?

In my own apartment we have six pets. In most instances we never outright sought the pet. We’ve just been in the right place at the wrong right time.

Sandy is my baby and the one we had planned on. Ty and I hadn’t been married a month before we wanted to get a dog. We visited the animal shelter three times and each time her sad eyes were staring up at me. She was wearing a tattered blue bandana around her neck that made her stand out. She looked like Benji, so scruffy and sweet-looking.

Our cats are nuisances bundles of joy times four. Padme was a spur-of-the-moment adoption. Petsmart had an Adoption Day sign that was viewable from the Olive Garden (our only intention that day was to have a nice lunch date). I begged Ty to look at the kitties. He said we’d only adopt one if there was a calico. Surprise, surprise! Padme came home with us. Ty named her after a character from the Star Wars prequel that was wildly popular around that time.

Padme (Pad-may is the official pronunciation, I think, but we call her Pad-ah-may)

Poppy, our second kitty, was adopted in a similar way. We wanted a feline friend for Padme and it only seemed logical to get a second cat for her sake. Ty said he would only adopt one if the shelter had a tortoiseshell. Surprise, surprise! I swear my husband has premonition powers.

Nicknames are supposed to be short, but Poppy's nickname is Miss Poppolla.

Padme & Poppy. BFFs.

Sambo, our third, chose us. She was from a neighbor’s litter. All those kittens showed up on my porch one night, adorable to the core. They came back a couple more times and this one little black cat kept sticking around. She was lying on the porch one morning so I snatched her up and brought her inside. Ty wasn’t too happy, but I’d like to think she’s grown on him. She’s terrified of almost everything, but oh so sweet.

Baby Samantha, although her nickname quickly became Sambo.

Although not sweet enough to avoid getting knocked up. My precious little baby’s hormones went crazy before we could get her spayed. In stealth mode she escaped from my parents’ house twice, always returning by way of the upstairs window (the same one Brody, the cockatiel, came through—it’s an animal portal of some kind. I swear!). She had our fourth bundle of kitty fur joy: the precocious Maya.

Sambo with baby Maya giving her a kiss.

A rare shot of mother & daughter.

She reminds me of a brooding old man.

Our pet family was complete.

Stella Byrd

Until we got a parakeet a little over a week ago. We were at the pet store for kitty-related items and saw this one tiny blue bird observing us from behind the glass. She kept trying to get closer, as if she wanted to walk through the glass and come home with us. We made two more trips to the store to visit her and she did the same thing each time. This was the friendliest, most outgoing parakeet I’d seen—and I’d owned a few in my time. Ty named her Stella and she truly is a tame little baby. My house is a zoo loving home for pets of all kind.

Which brings me to what this has to do with simple living: There is no simple way to keep the fur at bay. It’s embedded in couches, settling in curtains, wafting in the air, collecting in corners . . . Swiffering two or three times a day barely makes a dent. It’s only a matter of hours before the fur recollects on the dark bamboo floor. I got a special brush for Sandy that pulls out the undercoat and every day I remove chunks of sandy-blonde fur. Padme has a chronic skin disease so she, herself, removes her fur in chunks whenever her depo-shot starts to wear off. We even bought an air purifier to filter out the fur. It seems to help, but it certainly doesn’t clean for me. This is the high price of being an animal lover.

I’m not complaining. Sure it gets overwhelming, even frustrating at times, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Yesterday I spent several hours de-furring the place. I ended up having to put a pink bandana over my mouth and nose just to get the job done. I tore down all the curtains and washed them, put all the cat beds outside, shook out the rugs, and swept and vacuumed in a futile battle. I even took the scissors to poor Sandy. She’s had worse haircuts. I swear.

Sandy loving her luxurious fur.

What on earth have you done to me?!?!

Sure the place was much more breathable in the end, and it is a lot better today, but the fur started resettling before I could wash the dust out of my hair last night. It’s one of those never-ending battles, and the fur always wins the war.