Men in Cages: Animal House

For the vast majority of my childhood, my household was strictly pet-free.  This was at the behest of my father, who grew up vehemently anti-animal. 

My father’s parents loved birds and kept a pet cockatiel in the home.  To hear my grandmother tell it, this bird was a miraculous creature – beautiful, intelligent, and worldly (as evidenced by its ability to say hello in a dozen different languages).  In spite of this bird’s talents, my father felt no affection for it.

One day, during his teenage years, my father arrived home from school and this spectacular bird flew over to him and perched itself upon his shoulder.  My father grabbed the bird in his fist, threw it to the ground, and stomped it to death.

My father is not a pet person.

My mother, by contrast, is very much a pet person.  She grew up vehemently pro-animal.  As a child, she took care of many dogs – both ones she owned and strays she’d find in the neighborhood.  She never stomped on any of these dogs.

Shockingly enough, in spite of my parents’ extremely disparate pet-related backgrounds, they came to love one another. 

I have to assume that, early in my parent’s married life, there was some tension over the issue of whether or not to attain a pet.  I also have to assume that my mother probably didn’t push the issue too hard.  Had mom insisted on the presence of an animal in the home, she would have had to live in constant fear that one day she’d come home and find the pet dead on the floor, an imprint of my father’s shoe on its carcass.

So mom resigned herself to a pet-free adult life.  But children are genetically pre-dispositioned to want animals.  And once my parents birthed three animal-wanting offspring, the pet issue was re-opened.

I recall numerous family arguments during which my siblings and I would plead with my father to let us get a dog.  Each and every argument ended with my father proposing we take a poll on the matter.  “Tori, do you want a dog?” he would ask.  And before I could say a word, he would shriek “No!” in a childish tone.  Dad would go on to inquire, “Stephie, do you want a dog?”  "No, daddy!" he would reply to himself.  “Bryan, do you want a dog?  No!  Mommy, do you want a dog?  No!  Daddy, do you want a dog? Well, I did, but if no one else wants one, I guess we won’t get one.”  And the matter was closed.

When I was in middle school, my father gave in and agreed that the family could get a dog.  (As a general rule, parents give in on most everything by the time their third child is old enough to actively beg for it.  When I wanted a Nintendo, I was told that video games would rot my brain.  When my sister wanted a Nintendo, she was told that video games were too expensive.  When my brother wanted a Nintendo, video games miraculously appeared underneath the Christmas tree.)

Finally having a pet was wonderful and I loved our dog very much.  But, having been denied a dog for so long, to a great extent, I’d divorced myself from the notion that I really wanted one.  And, having spent so many of my formative years not around a dog, I was never totally able to grasp proper human-dog interaction.  It was too late for me to become much of a dog person.

My mom’s a dog person through and through, however.  And once she became confident that pets in our home were not at risk of being stomped to death by my father, there was no turning back for her.  It became my mother’s quest to keep our home constantly filled with dogs.  Once that first dog passed, my mom assured herself a constant supply of dogs by signing up to be a dog foster parent.

Dog foster parenting involves taking in “troubled dogs” for short periods of time.  Once a dog is deemed “less troubled,” it is eligible for adoption and it leaves its foster home.  This is a difficult set up for an emotional woman like my mother, who, without fail, cries extensively every time one of her foster pups leaves her for its adopted family.  It’s also a difficult set up for someone like me, who really just isn’t fabulous with dogs in general, let alone “troubled” ones.

One summer, my parents went off on an exotic vacation to Virginia and left me in charge of caring for Bruno – the current foster dog.  This was terrible.  In spite of being a male dog, Bruno was a total bitch.  He liked my mother very much and greatly disliked everyone who was not her.  And he was keen on doing things like crapping all over the rug and giving menacing looks.  I decided the best way to care for Bruno was just to vacate the house as often as possible (and leave my brother notes that said, “Dog pooped on floor.  Please clean up.”). 

At some point during my time as Bruno’s primary caretaker, Bruno decided to go looking for my mom.  He escaped from my yard and commenced prowling the streets of my neighborhood.  I probably should have dealt with this by catching him, but, instead, I chose to deal with it by hosting a BBQ and not giving a shit that the dog had run off.  I figured he’d come back eventually.

Bruno did not come back.

Mom did come back, however, and was curious to know where the dog was.  “Um, he’s gone,” I was forced to reply.  This did not go over well. 

But, hey, at least I hadn't killed the dog with my own foot . . .

"Men in Cages" runs Friday afternoons.  It's not usually about abusing pets.  Well, this one time it was, but that's really not the norm.  It also usually has more of a conclusion.  Oh well.

Comments

[Inactive account]

What happened to LiLo?

[Tori]

Yeah, so I felt as though fitting LiLo into every post was constricting me . . . Also, she's kind of a ho-bag. It was time to move on.

[KELLYq]

If you need a new lady for your posts, might i suggest the lovely Olivia Benson?
http://www.mariska.com/gallery/

[Inactive account]

Of course, she is old enough to be Tori's mother.

[Tori]

Oh KELLYq, as we discussed at Mr. Douglas' birthday party, I ADORE Ms. Hargitay. She is the center of my universe. It's not rare that I will start watching an SVU marathon and, before I know it, seven hours have passed. And I don't even feel bad, because a day spent with Mariska is a day well-spent.

(Admittedly, it's also not rare that I will start watching a regular L&O marathon and, before I know it, seven hours have passed. So maybe I have a crush on Jerry Orbach too . . . )

[Phylan]

Mariska also did a nude spread for some magazine but I can't remember which

[The Mayor]

I hope that story about your dad and that bird is not true because that is AWFUL (and I believe technically illegal).

[Tori]

I would never lie to my readership. Well, I guess I might and probably have on a few occasions, but in this particular case, the story's true.

[Tori]

And c'mon, it was the late '60s; nothing was illegal back then.

[Inactive account]

I agree with The Mayor; that story is very disturbing.

[Tori]

Word, so I was talking to my dad the other night and mentioned this childhood incident to him and he was like, "Ah yes . . . that time I killed a bird. Oh, speaking of which, I was golfing the other day and one of the guys on my foursome teed off and then said, 'I think I just hit a bird.' And the rest of us were like, 'No no, that can't be.' And sure enough, when we went to locate our balls, we found a dead bird along the way." No emotion attached to this story AT ALL. That's my dad. Discussing bird muder as though it was any old thang.