Parting Shot
Pet Proclivities
By Mark J. Lucas |
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I had several dogs, growing up. We used to rent dogs. We'd get a dog from the pound, keep it for a couple weeks, remember that we weren't dog people, and then return the dog to the pound. After returning our final dog, Winston, my sister looked up at my dad and said.
"That wasn't bad. We almost had that one for a month!"
I suppose it was our family's attempt to do wholesome, American things. Everyone else on the street had some kind of dog. They'd walk their dogs, and chat about dog things. They'd barbeque, while their dogs would stare up at them, longingly, in the hopes that some burgers would be left unattended. They'd say "come on in" and then their dogs would jump up and smash you in the genitals with their paws. Every now and then, a neighbor would tell us how smart their dog was, because it found something under the couch or something.
"Isn't she smart? Who's smart? Who's a smart girl! You're smart, Ladybird! You're smart!"
Contributing writer, Mark J. Lucas
Photo: Christopher Atwood
Smart...for a dog. People who say their dogs are smart, always leave that part out. Sure, he can figure out how to open a door, but can he read? The dog eats its own shit, for cryin' out loud. Even the smartest dog in the world would make for a pretty stupid human. If one of you were walking down the street, and someone was running around in circles and then started barking at a squirrel, you'd think that person was a moron. The reason it's hard to see that is because dogs can't talk. It's like one of those people who seem really smart, because they never say anything. That's because they know if they open their mouth, something stupid is gonna come out.
We became fish people. No one trusts fish people; we hate things that are cute. We believed fish had a zen-like quality. There they would float, so at peace, suspended in liquid serenity, brandishing all the colors of the rainbow. In their black eyes dwelt a simplicity, devoid of judgment. To a fish, all was equal, as long as it didn't eat you.
That's the kind of crap you have to sell yourself if you just can't make it happen with a dog.
I wish I could say we were good at it. Many a fish found itself in the toilet, flushed to an early grave. They weren't even fancy saltwater fish. They were just regular, plain fish. We could have a carp in one of those tanks - the kind that eat trash off the river bottom - and they'd still succumb to our inabilities. One fish actually flipped itself out of the tank while we were on vacation - and the tank had a lid on it! We came home from vacation and there it was, all dried up on the floor. It would rather commit ritual suicide than continue on in our home. When we'd walk into the pet store to get another fish, they would all hide in the castle. The weakest fish would be sent out against its will to placate us. It was something akin to a virgin sacrifice.
When the fish lost their appeal, we got parakeets: Burt and Ernie. One of their favorite pastimes was to hop down to their seed dish and throw all their food on the floor. At night, they would squawk endlessly throughout the night. They would also fight with each other in front of company. Do you know how bad a pet owner you have to be to own poorly behaved birds? They pretty much come trained. Personally, I blame the fact that there is no way to correct them. When they mess up, you can't hit them with a rolled-up newspaper. Well, you can, but that's a permanent solution to a temporary problem.
When I went off to college, I was exposed to many other pet owners, from many walks of life. Being from a farm town, I had a different perspective on raising pets from my metropolitan counterparts. If any dog from my old neighborhood had a sweater, it was in its mouth. Never had I seen such opulent care taken to animals. There were a thousand gadgets available to cater to their every need. My favorite was a harness that went around the dog's shoulders to keep it from getting sore from a leash. I was familiar with a simpler device, known as a chain. How it worked was, you put the chain around the dog's neck, which kept it from running away from the tree. There were things that were absent, as well. The doghouse, for example: unheard of.
You know what I have now? A praying mantis. You wanna know why I have a mantis?
Because it's not a domesticated animal, and yet, it's not large enough to kill me. That's my kind of pet. In addition, it's a masterpiece of natural engineering. It doesn't care if I pay attention to it. It doesn't care that I don't walk it. All it cares about is taking down crickets. It's the embodiment of primal instinct. Never happy, never sad...Always hunting, just like it would do if it weren't in a fishbowl with a stick and a leaf in my office. I don't even think it's aware of my existence, other than being the force that opens the lid. I appreciate nature, and as such, I have the pure form, and in some small way, that's what I think a pet should be.
Again, that's the kind of crap you have to convince yourself of if you can't make it happen with a dog.
Originally Published: September 1, 2009
