Since I now know that most of my readers are NOT refined, and that even my refined readers can handle a gritty story, I can tell you about a flashback I had today.

I must have been 6 or 7 years old. I was playing on the couch with one of our gerbils. In an effort to put him back in his cage, I picked him up by the tail, as I was taught, or so I thought. I didn’t grab the tail at a low enough point, however. The tip of the tail came off in my fingers. What was my response to this interesting development? Did I call for my mother and show concern over the gerbil? No. Afraid to tell anyone about it, I stuffed the tip of tail between the couch cushions. Even now, it is the fact that I stuffed the tail in the couch cushion that I remember being the most disturbing thing about that event. The Gerbil was fine. He just had a shorter tail.

We had quite a few pets growing up. This brings back many wonderful memories, but also some that are disturbing. We went through three or four birds in all. Our first parakeet, Emily, was the memorable. She used to eat out of my sister’s mouth and drink out of our fish tank. Yes, she did have food and water in her cage, but we often let her fly around the house. She had a pretty decent life, but ended up drowning in that fishtank when we were out of town and someone was watching her for us. One of our parakeets used to fly down and attack the gerbils everytime we took the lid off the gerbil cage. Her life ended when one of the gerbils bit her neck. I don’t know why we didn’t keep the birds in their cages more often. Perhaps the relative freedom that we gave them was worth it to them. ‘Live free or die?” Is this apt? Or is it more like “Live free AND die?”

Then there are the gerbil stories. We had many gerbils, so you have to put these in perspective. Before we knew enough to leave wood in cage for the gerbils to chew on, the top teeth of one of our first gerbils grew so long that he punctured his own neck. I tend to block memories like this out. Things went smoothly after that, until many years later when someone dropped one of the gerbils on the corner of a bed, and he got a little crazy. I won’t say anymore about that.

We had a beautiful tank of fish until I won a goldfish at my elementary school’s spring fair. We put him in the tank and all the other fish died off, one by one. He lived for years. We never had a good feeling about him though.

When we stopped buying more birds, I started pushng for a cat. The months before my 8th birthday I began praying for nightly for one. I announced to my parents that I was doing this and said, “I just know that God is going to answer my prayers.” I was good, wasn’t I? On my birthday, we drove to a house that must have had about 50 cats. At least that’s the way I remember it. I was told I could choose a kitten. My two sisters were there with me, too. We left with three kittens.

Our cat family grew quickly. My sister’s cat had a litter of kittens within the first year. Yes, we were stupid to let this happen, but watching Samantha give birth to her three kittens was one of the most positive experiences of my childhood. I discovered the first kitten. Cats are supposed to hide away when they are having their kittens, but Samantha came out to get us. She came from the back bedroom toward us, but stopped in the kitchen and seemed to be playing with something black. We were sitting in the dining room at the time. I went over to her to see what it was. It was a wet black kitten. Before she gave birth, we arranged a bed for her hoping she would have her kittens there. When we found her with the first kitten, we put her in it and watched her give birth to two more kittens.

We had so much fun with those kittens. When they got old enough, we had to give two away. We kept the black one, who we named Noir. The big mistake we made was getting our female cats fixed immediately after Samantha gave birth. Sadly, the operation took a lot out of her. She came back after the operation with no interest in her kittens. My cat, Diamond, our only male cat, stepped in. After the other two kittens were placed, he would lie next to Noir (the black kitten) and let him play with his tail as he patiently flipped it up and down.

Then Diamond was hit by a car. We were sad, but Noir was hit the hardest. He stopped eating. We tried hard to get him to eat, but it was as if his will to live was gone. He died in our hands one night. We’re pretty sure it from a broken heart, since he moaned and moaned waiting for Daimond to return.

Our other two cats lived long lives. After college, my sister took them to live with her. Samantha died in her arms many years later at a very old age. By this time, Cheesecake, our neurotic other cat who was very much like a dog, was no longer with my sister. While my sister was working two jobs, Cheesecake found someone who would give her the spoiling she needed. Cheesecake arrived at my sister’s door one morning with a fancy, jeweled collar on. Apparently a neighbor had taken a liking to her. Cheesecake lived between apartments for some time. When it came time for my sister to move, she couldn’t find Cheesecake. Sadly, she had to move without her. We assume she ended her life happily eating out of fancy goblets. At least I like to imagine so. She was a special cat. An absolute character.

I thought this would be a fun post, but it is actually quite tragic now that I think about it. I am actually feeling sad thinking about my cats. I miss taking long walks in the woods with Cheesecake when we went camping. She would follow us for miles, rustling behind the trees as she went. It was like having a dog. I miss my cats waking me up on summer mornings, crunching on large bugs caught on their morning hunts. I miss them purring, even Cheescake’s annoying drooling as she purred and Samantha’s tendency to grab my hand and bite it when she had had enough, trapping my hand with her forearms and kicking it with her backfeet. Can I just say, “OUCH!

I am now allergic to cats, believe it or not. We have ONE pet, a dog, good old Charlie, and I’ve been working hard to make sure we are doing right by her. She’s certainly looking happy lately. I don’t think we can handle much more. We’ll see what happens when Rachel turns eight.

Now tell me some of your childhood pet stories. They don’t have to be sad.