Animal House

I don’t recall a time that I wasn’t surrounded by animals. With an ark-like attitude and farming background, my family has served as befuddled caretakers to a wide variety of creatures, many of whom found us rather than the other way around. An early photo shows me with a halo of cotton candy hair, a short dress twisted on my stick thin frame, knobby, skinned knees, and a cat with a resigned expression garroted in the crook of my arm.

As I write there is a dog sleeping on my foot and a cat draped over the arm of the adjacent chaise. My set of mother/daughter Yorkies serve as warm, immobile boundary markers on my bed each night, generously stapling me into the approximate space of a coffin. Stitch, the Great Dane/French Mastiff puppy, ponders the sleeping arrangements with sad confusion from his bed on the floor.

Chubby, as Strawberry is fondly called, was added to the mix when my parents moved into assisted living. Her daughter Mrs. Bigglesworth has been with me since puppy hood, a birthday gift from my Mom. Biggles’ dad was dubbed Blueberry, presumably by the same three year old who named her mother, so I briefly entertained the thought of calling her Fruit Salad. An immediate veto was handed down by my daughters.

Cats and their independent style are also held in high regard. They tell you what they want, when they need it, and then politely ask that you bugger off. In an attempt to stick to my self-imposed guidelines of animal non-replacement, I put my foot down several years ago and Just Said No to felines. Our current three had disappeared within weeks of each other: one in a losing game of chicken with a car, and the other two to coyotes (or, as my politically incorrect daughters hinted, possibly as the ingredients in a dish served at our neighbor's Chinese restaurant) .

A long term relationship with an allergy prone man made it easy to stick to my guns, but when that situation hit the skids the pressure was on. My eldest Daughter of the Heartfelt Pleas and Promises wore me down and we adopted sibling strays from the local shelter. At least weekly I find myself threatening to relocate Mr. Bo Jangles and Trouble to the barn if they aren’t properly cared for, but haven’t had the heart to remove their fuzzy, vibrating bodies from the premises.

The Everlasting Bunny resides out back in a hutch. Nice rabbit, cute as the dickens, but enough already; most parrots don’t live as long as this thing. With the lackluster life he leads, one might think he would have died from sheer boredom years ago. But no. He plugs along, eating voraciously and pooping his miniscule brains out. Every so often I give a deep sigh and resign myself to trimming the long, scary nails that grow like witches talons. I have steeled myself for his departure from this world, but he clearly has other plans.

The horses, largest in both size and expense, are the closest to my heart and live on a 12 acre farm 30 miles south of our home. Over the last dozen years my girls and I have graduated from weekly riding lessons, to a shared horse that we owned but paid to board, and now lease and operate a private horse stable where we each keep our own animals.

Our very first equine, Cue - a paint gelding, was a great starter horse, but was outgrown by my daughters after about five years. Knowing that horses are too expensive as gratuitous pets I made the heart wrenching decision to trade him for my eldest daughter Zina’s current horse. Curtis is an 11 year old Thoroughbred that she has loved since he was foaled at our friend’s farm; both are dyed in the wool punks so I understand the attraction.

While I still dream of someday regaining ownership of Cue and retiring him, it seems unlikely as he has an almost cult following in the lesson program at our old barn. Meanwhile, I adore my new girl Charlotte - a brick shit house of a horse with an attitude to match.

Sofia, the younger, purchased a 3 year old Thoroughbred off the track at Suffolk Downs last year and named her Bella, over my strenuous insistence that J-Lo was the perfect name in light of her substantial derriere. She is a bit of a wild thing, somewhat like her owner.

Some think I’m crazy, others roll their eyes, yet there are those who understand that animals make my world go round. The current ‘critter count’ has become a running joke in my annual holiday letters, right along with my firm assertions to scale back the kingdom.

Financially and rationally, our numbers are way too high; soulfully, they feel just perfect. When all is said and done, after my girls fray my last nerve, life throws me another curve ball, or my business grays my hair, there is always a warm body that is willing to let me pet it, hold it, or take it for a ride and right the wrongs of the day.