A Regular Hag-agerie

As some have noticed, this post is later than usual (even for the Hag), and that stems from a writing block I’ve experienced in the past few days. I think I would prefer to have influenza; I swear. With fingers crossed, I’ll try now to get something into writing. {wishing myself luck}

I have often made comments or statements attesting to the fact that I love animals. I’ve never shared with readers, however, any information about the animals that I’ve called my own. I may as well start at the very beginning…

Peanuts was my first dog. My parents got her about the time I was born. I think they figured “in case the kid doesn’t pan out too well, we’ll have the dog.” She was a terrier mix; white with some black around one ear … from this photo it’s hard to tell, but she greatly resembled the RCA dog. I didn’t even know life without Peanuts until we had to put her to sleep at eighteen years old ~ she was my pal and I recall feeling quite detached when it was her time to go.

This dog loved to get out of the yard. All it took was for someone to forget and leave the gate unlatched … and we just knew Peanuts would be wandering the neighborhood. Running after her always proved to be an exercise in complete buffoonery. She’d sit calmly, waiting till you got about three feet from her, then bolt down the street again without even looking back! This could sometimes go on for an hour. Everyone in the neighborhood knew Peanuts, and it was often one of our friends who could finally grab hold and bring her back.

Toward her twilight years, she lost her hearing (for the most part) and part of her sight as well. Back then, you didn’t take a dog to the vet unless they seemed in pain or you had lots of money, which we did not. She never seemed in pain until the very end when she had grown an inoperable tumor in her belly. So, she went along without hearing or seeing very well ~ and my sister Lynn and I would laugh like hell when she’d suddenly walk into a wall or step in her own water bowl. We were kids ~ it was funny, and we’d always help her out in the long run.

During the Peanuts years, we also had a bunny. Frisky was the coolest rabbit! She was dark brown with a neatly placed wide, white stripe just around her neck; a small Dutch breed. We kept her in a large pen that my dad had built. She lived in the basement. It was cool in the summertime because it was underground, and toasty in winter from the warmth of the furnace; a perfect home for her. She got tons of attention from all of us, and I got the biggest kick out of holding half a carrot while she chomped on it, or putting on her leash and walking her around the neighborhood. She loved this activity! So did the neighbors. We would often bring her up into the house and let her run loose, as long as someone (me) was willing to follow her every move and scoop up the little round presents she left all about. She wasn’t supposed to live for more than four or five years, but she made it to eight ~ a very well cared for bunny.

Throughout my childhood years, there were also parakeets, frogs, dozens of turtles (still one of my favorite creatures on earth) that we won at church bazaars, and of course, the occasional lightening bug or grasshopper in a jar. Oh gosh yes, and of course, what house wouldn’t be complete without a goldfish? They never liked us very much though ~ to put it nicely, they didn’t “stay” long.

Sometime after Peanuts died, we got Delilah. She was a gem of a dog; a long-haired, purebred Saint Bernard. We had since moved into a small house and to stand at one end watching her barrel down the hallway at you was almost frightful! Glassware would rattle as she passed through the kitchen and dining room … and if you were clever, you’d brace yourself against a wall because Delilah was a massive creature who enjoyed giving dog-hugs. We were lucky that she didn’t drool as much as most Saint Bernards do.

The saddest thing I remember about Delilah was that she had a brother named Samson, who ended up being a gas station dog. Samson was killed when he laid sleeping beneath a hydraulic lift – unbeknownst to the mechanic on duty who released the thing lowering a car. By the time he realized Samson was there, it was too late – hydraulics are like that. It crushed his back, and he never made it to the animal hospital. Why did I throw this into my story? Because say what you will, but before we ever found out about Samson’s fate, we were all quite confused as to why Delilah lay moaning all afternoon; not eating nor greeting any of us at the door – she seemed to know, and I think that’s pretty amazing.

Years later, when I met my second husband, we decided to adopt one of the pups born to his brother’s pair of miniature beagles. We chose the runt … a female with near perfect markings. I’m not one to follow the stats on whether beagles are supposed to be smart or stupid dogs, but I can assure you that Tamara was quite bright. She had developed epilepsy and had to take dilantin most of her life, but she was just a barrel of fun to have around. After husband and I parted ways, she came to live with me.

I was quite proud of myself when I was able to train her to stand at full attention (beagle attention, that is; tail pointed and front paw lifted slightly – snout reaching forward) whenever this man with a red hat walked by the apartment building. She never liked the guy’s scent for some reason and used to growl and bark long before he would even come into sight. But I taught her “RED HAT, TAM! RED HAT!” and she’d stand and point at full attention… as though she was stalking him for the kill. This was so comical because she was a small shit of a dog and yet she thought she could take on the world.

I also trained her to get all riled up if someone came to the door, unexpectedly. She would always bark to a knock at the door, but I got a kick out of saying, “KILL, Tam, KILL! Show ‘em whatcha got!” and she’d go nuts and attack her chew toy like it was a rabid mouse. Have I ever mentioned that I hate the “pop in?” If you come to my house unannounced, you just never know what’s in store.

Tamara Melissa Taylor was her full name. The Tamara part I pulled out of my ass, but the Melissa was for Melissa Manchester and the Taylor was for James Taylor. Music was huge in my life back then. Her alternate name (why the AKC used to ask for this, I will never know) was Tamara Messina Mitchell. There’s a prize waiting for anyone who can guess who those two names were taken from.

Anyway, Tam got special treatment at all times. She was my child before my child; my parenting practice-run. I even put her on a plane and flew her out to Las Vegas (because while planning my cross country trip, I wasn’t keen on cleaning doggie vomit throughout the entire drive). She liked it out there, except for her first jaunt in the desert when she nosed into a yucca and got nailed by a scorpion. That wasn’t fun. Her nose looked cartoon-ish for three days, but a trip to the vet and a shot in the hiney and she was good to go again.

I hated myself for a long time for putting her to sleep, but she lived to thirteen which wasn’t such an awful life-span for a miniature beagle with epilepsy. She ended up with some sort of colon issue, and stomach cancer. It wasn’t pretty. She had been a truly faithful companion for me and I’ll forever miss her.

While I had Tamara, I acquired a snapping turtle and a box turtle. The snapping turtle was named Basie because I got him a year after Count Basie died, and the box turtle was CT because I got him in Connecticut so you could say it applies to the postal abbreviation or simply, to “Connecticut Turtle.” They each required different care and it was a challenge – sometimes a smelly one at that, oh but I loved my turtles. I no longer have either. I also had a German shepherd named Sheba, but lost custody of her during a divorce. She was definitely a man’s dog.

And then there were cats.

Never in my life did I like cats. I just didn’t know how. To me, they were sneaky ~ devious ~ aloof; just too independent. But, as fate would have it, I moved into a house where the community didn’t allow dogs. My young daughter wanted a pet. She deserved a pet. I wanted her to learn a bit of responsibility, but also, I missed having an animal around.

I tried giving her a goldfish, but she couldn’t hug it. I even tried to convince her that all the birds at the feeders were her pets. That didn’t fly (nudge nudge, wink wink). So down to the Humane Society we went and one black and white cat was saved from certain death.
He wasn’t a little kitten, which was what we wanted … but he was still under a year old and quite a little rascal.

Gatito (left) Jazzman (right)

It took that little bastard only three days to turn me around. He had me at … (no, no … I will NOT say it. I hate that phrase). Let’s just say that the first time he reached out and swiped my ankle turning it into a bloody mass of tattered skin, I was in serious ‘like’.

Two more cats later, and I’m now hopeless for these stealthy creatures. Given the opportunity, I could easily become that cat lady we all hear about on the news. Thank God Ed stabilizes me. He, unlike me, knows right from very, very wrong. Oh he loves the cats ... the two that will go anywhere within three feet of him, that is. The other one got knocked in the head as a kitten and I’m afraid he sees me as his great protector … never allowing anyone else to cuddle him.

Looking back, I’m happy that my parents involved me with animals as young child. I’m not sure what I would have done with all that extra film if I didn’t have my animals. I think I could take the prize for boring animals pictures; dogs sleeping, cats staring, turtles … um, being turtley, and birds perching.

I do love having an animal in the house - and aside from doing the hokey pokey, I have a feeling that’s what it’s all about.