Necessary Beasties

My mother didn’t like pets and that's an understatement. Not dogs, cats, bunnies, gerbils, canaries or even baby goats – nope. We weren’t permitted any. She said my father was allergic to animal fur and this was the reason.

One year, a stray dog adopted us. All us kids (four of us) in a singular moment of agreement and camaraderie, fell in love with the beast. The big furry thing was the center of our universe and we wanted, no, needed to keep him. We begged, we pleaded, we thought we’d won.

And then one day, my mother had a treat for us. She took us to a Saturday matinee. I don’t recall the flick now but I remember happiness – given our usual acrimonious state, this was way unusual. It was the dog – he brought magic into our lives.

Post-movie, we got home to find a Rover-less house. He was nowhere to be found. PANIC! We kids combed the neighborhood, calling his name. No dice. The parental units tried to calm us with logic – he was a stray. Strays gotta roam. He was a free being.

I was devastated but grudgingly understood that if the boy didn’t want to stay, we surely couldn’t/shouldn’t force him. I was confused though, I thought Rover loved us as much as we adored him. This was a mega hard life lesson.

Years passed. I became an adult, moved to Boston and became a cat magnet/doormat. Daddy, without Mother, would occasionally stop in for a day or two on his way home after visiting his father in upstate New York.

I was a little nervous before one arrival. Ya see, I’d just gotten my first, very own grimalkin – Mustafa, a black cat. How would Daddy react? Would I need to shut Mustafa away so’s my father wouldn’t have a nasty allergic reaction?

Ah…no.

Mustafa climbed atop my father’s chest the minute he sat on the couch and that was that. Mustafa and Daddy were clearly mondo content and, despite a little red, watery eye action (on Daddy’s part), they were inseparable.

I was stunned. I thought, like Mother, Daddy didn’t like the four footed sweeties. I also thought his allergies were a MUCH bigger, devastating deal. Clearly not.

It was on this visit that Daddy confessed. Rover hadn’t run off. While my mother took us to the movies, Daddy had brought our beloved, found pet to the animal shelter. Mother did NOT want to be bothered with caring for the good boy (and assumed she’d be stuck with the detestable thing because…KIDS!). Her animal hatred was profound. So muscular that she was unable to grok that Rover was a healer, that we were all happier (‘cept her) and got along much better with the dog in our lives. Also, learning how to take care of Rover, how to see to his wants and needs would've been a good lesson in responsibility for us.

Nope. Why didn't they just tell us? Why the lies? Because we kids would have, mebbe won. Rover was ONE OF US. Mother didn't want to deal with four angry, whiny kids and knew that my father would cave and side with us.Yeah, I'm still a little pissed.

Why’s this come up this morning? I'm so grateful for my beautiful, wonderfully supportive princess, Coco. She’s taken me through The Amazing Bob’s death, Rocco’s too and all my annoying, periodic surgeries. My friends are magnificent, molto importante and I couldn’t live without them but…Coco? She patiently sits on my hip until I’m ready to roll outta bed each morning. When I’m sad, a daily deal, she climbs onto my chest and revs up the purr engines. She entertains me with her fierce pen stealing/fighting antics and she’s a brill communicator.

I have cataract surgery tomorrow morning. I have BIG confidence in my kitten's nursing abilities.