Of Pets And Children

We are awash in hair. It is everywhere; from the patches on the furniture to the dust bunnies the size of actual, well, bunnies, our house can only be described as overwhelmingly hirsute. Spring has arrived and with it the annual rite of shedding. Our pets are welcoming the change of seasons by molting and we are suffering through puffy clouds of fur.

The pets with whom we share our home do this every year, but it seems particularly bad this time. By pets I mean our two dogs and cat, not the children. Though my wife believes that until they become bipedal kids can be referred to as pets, the children rarely seem to shed. The canines and feline are the real problems. They unload their coats anywhere and everywhere with no sense of shame. They just couldn't care less, which has been their way from the beginning.

The black dog is growing old. Her muzzle is white, her gait is stiff, and her habits sedentary. She can get excited about the prospect of a walk but after half a block regrets her decision. It's a sad change from her rambunctious puppyhood. After first moving in together we - my wife and I - went to the shelter to look for a kitten, but there were curiously none to be found. On the way out we stopped and looked at the puppies. My wife had never had a dog - had no interest in changing that - but when I convinced her to just play with one for a bit, her resistance was stripped away by soft fur and a crazy licking tongue and she fell in love. So, we brought home a puppy, one of the ubiquitous lab-mixes. She - the dog - had picked up bortadella, kennel cough, in the shelter and spent her first weeks with us hacking most nights. That's how she - the dog - got her name; Coughy.

As a youngster she lived for tall grass and snowdrifts, leaping into them and emerging with rye fronds or snowblocks atop her head. When we lived in Iowa my wife and I would frequently go for picnics on weekends to the infamous Bridges of Madison County. As my wife slept in the warm sun, Coughy and I would hike through pastures or down stream beds where she would chase all manner of wildlife for kicks. She would exhaust herself and, at the end of the day, I would have to carry her sleeping body from the back of my car to the house. A lap dog from the beginning, her 65 pounds is frequently leg-crushing. More so than any pet I have ever had, she believes she is human, probably because like many other couples and their dogs, she was, in many respects our practice child and we adored her.

Time, however, has taken its toll on her. From the first, Coughy was neurotic and that trait has only grown over the years. She whines incessantly at the smallest noise, regardless of our reassurances. Since being t-boned by a bowling ball of a bulldog at the dog park a couple of years ago she has never been the same. She is stiff. Having slept on our bed for most of her life, in the last couple of years she finds it too painful to make the leap and instead, prefers the more accessible dog pillow in a corner of our room. She doesn't dislike the kids but prefers to avoid their random motion and unpredictable behaviour as much as possible. That's probably for the best. Assuming nothing major arises, the vet says she has maybe two years left before we notice Coughy's misery is beyond the threshhold of a good life. There are days even now when she crosses that line.

The youngest of our pets - again, not the children - is the brown dog. Found orphaned in the street shortly after we bought this house four years ago, she was a little, flea-infested, 14 week old pup with nothing but charm to offer in exchange for room and board. She chewed her way through most of our furniture before she finally realized that her charm, abundant as it was, might not be enough to cover the costs and she changed her ways. We bounced around any number of horrible names during her first week with us, but none seemed to work. We took to calling her Bean, while we waited for something better to pop up. At the end of that first week, by coincidence, friends came for a visit with their ten-year old granddaughter, who spent the drive down working on a name for us in the hopes we had not found something already. Upon meeting the dog, but without knowing of our temporary appellation, she said we should name the pup, Bean. The serendipity made it permanent. It was only later, while calling both dogs in from the backyard that we realized the embarassing consequences; "Coughy! Bean! Coughy, Bean."

She is a pitbull mix though her tall, slender 75 pounds and tan coat make one think she belongs to a distinct breed. She has one lazy ear, the tip of which flops loosely and perks up only when she cocks her head, like the RCA Victor dog, after hearing, "Hungry?" or, "Park?" Whereas the black dog believes she is human, Bean most assuredly acts like, and believes she is, a dog. She chases cats, can sleep anywhere, lives for mud, eats anything no matter how foul and asks for nothing more than a pat on the head and a thrown ball. She loves the kids and, despite taking all manner of crap from them, avoids them only in the most abusive circumstances. Though her bark can be terrifying she is a coward in the extreme, having run, tail tucked, from any number of nasty, yapping, rat-sized dogs. She inhales her dinner and has proved worthy beyond measure when the kids' meals have ended up on the floor. She has no enemies and will forgive anyone any wrong done to her. Though I have occasionally doubted her intelligence, her loyalty and devotion remain unimpeachable. Of all the dogs I have known, and in spite of Coughy's tenure, Bean is the one I have most loved in my life.

The cat has been with my wife longer than I. When we met - the cat and I - she was a small, spritely kitten, intent on biting me at every opportunity and for no apparent reason. One morning, a couple of months into our relationship - mine and my wife's - as I reached out from the shower curtain to grab a towel, the cat performed a surgical strike on my unsuspecting hand. Perfectly executed, she drew blood from my knuckles. In retaliation and exasperation, I grabbed her and bit her ear. She howled, flitted out of my wet hands and sped away. She - my wife - was aghast and couldn't believe I could do such a thing. However, the cat has never, in the eleven years since, bitten me again, whereas my non-retaliating wife bears many cat tooth scars she has acquired during the same period.

The cat, despite being our first roommate, is frequently the forgotten member of the household. So many others have followed her and slowly moved her down the ladder, she can go entirely unnoticed until her demands for food remind us of her existence. She doesn't seem to mind and as long as the door outside is opened occasionally, she is satisfied.

I have come home upon occasion and, as I pulled into the garage, looked up to see her peering over the gutter at me with a supremely superior expression. I have seen her silhouetted in the moonlight walking the roof-ridge of the house next door unconcerned with anything other than the night. If called, she will come racing, bouncing dextrously from roof to fence to ground, and sidle up against your leg in purr. During the wide-open door days of summer her sadism has led to half-dead mice and lizards scattered thoughout the house, abandoned once she lost interest in their terror.

Though you wouldn't know it by her still kittenish demeanor, her nine lives have been stretched thin. Her left eye shows a brownish cloud where blood leaked in after a failed landing from a cozy, closet shelf several years ago. She can become wheezy every now and then, no doubt the result of nearly hanging herself when her investigation of a plastic grocery bag went horribly wrong. The handle got stuck around her throat which lead to a panicked 10 minute run through the house with a can of creamed corn bouncing after her. I was forced to pin her flailing body against a wall with a broom and cut the bag away as she hoarsely hissed her displeasure. Her ear is missing a slice, lost during fight with a neighborhood stray that was far scrappier than she. Her war wounds have not slowed her and I wouldn't be surprised if she outlived me. Her name is Nikki, bestowed upon her by my wife, in honor of a soap opera character. The cat deserves better.

My wife's description of anything that walks on all fours as a pet is amusing, even appropriate, but she know's better. She knows it's not the children who are pets. Despite the proliferation of flying fur, it's the pets - those creatures that came before our own offspring - who are our children as well. Our home is louder, dirtier and more crowded with them, but it's all family.