In Memoriam: All My Pets - #57
Life gives you all sorts of pets, so I’ve learned. Some people never get to enjoy one, and that’s unfortunate. Everybody should have at least one good pet in their life. For myself, I’ve had plenty — they left on bad terms, but plenty. They all ended in lost, open-ended loops during my childhood years. Ignorance and neglect were the culprits of the endless struggle to keep a pet. Every animal that came and went was either because of my doing or a blunder scenario. That said, I present now: a history of a bad owner and his adjacent happenings.
Charlie was a good ole’ doggie, so I’ve heard. The golden cocker spaniel most likely didn't remember me, and to be fair, I can say much the same about him. My tiny baby brain didn’t process the dog’s love. But according to Mom and Pop, he liked to snuggle up next to me as if I was his own litter. Before I was born, the dog went everywhere, from the winter bite of Oregon to the road trips across Mexico. Charlie was bright – and beautiful; could’ve starred in a Channing Tatum movie. One day, the pooch took a gaze across the road. The family business was alone on a service road of a six-lane state highway. That Saturday afternoon, Charlie looked both ways and crossed the concrete. Dog was so smart, he was playing Frogger, and cheated death from rushing two-ton trucks. “Why did Charlie cross the road?” my Mom said in Spanish to the workers. And one Mexican chimed up, saying what he saw: “There was a female that appeared on the other side. He went out for her.” Dog’s living in a meadow, maybe, but it’s been 24 years. Most likely in heaven fucking the road pooch.
See you around, Charlie.
Real historical photo of my dog.
Then we had Charlie Two. Actual name my mom gave him. He was an exact copy of Original Charlie, but he wasn’t as smart. Dog got too close to cars and barked at random people. The garbage men were always on edge of him jumping into their truck’s hydraulic crusher. But he was friendly with everyone, except for one guy: Dad’s dog. Well, “dog” – this thing was half wolf, half demon. The black beast was always growling. Licked its chops through the window when it got fixated on my squirming infant body laying in the crib. Mom recalls me watching it back, defenseless in my jammies. Scared the shit out of her. And like her, Charlie Two didn’t like him either, and one summer’s day, he squared off with the dog from hell. Guess who won? The demon dog went for the jugular – pure wolf tactic. Mom cried of course and told Dad to get rid of it. So he brought the demon dog out back and shot him behind the barn.
Seeya in the next one, Charlie Two.
Skip to about nine-years-old, and Mom picked me up from school one day. She told me to sit in the front – “Happy birthday!” Mom said, and I heard a small whimper in the back seat. A little chocolate hotdog was sitting there with declawed stumpies. Made me happy! There was a problem though -- we lived in a small brick home out where the weeds grow tall, on a desolate road, where the snakes and spiders grew to the size of 2x4s and pizza pies. We weren’t in the “country” per se – the liquor store down the road had a choice between Budweiser or Modelo. Just a bunch of little animals (scorpions, rattlesnakes, raccoons). The brown daschund was a curious one and we didn’t like the thought of arriving one afternoon and finding our dog constricted and foaming with venom. We kept her in the backroom with the laundry; "that should do it," Mom said. Welp, came back from school one evening, and I found her – missing. Back door left wide open with kibble in all directions. Dog figured out how to pick a lock, who knows. In any case, that chocolate hotdog gone somewhere in the grass, and the search amounted to nothing.
Enjoy wherever the weeds took you, Hershey.
Real historical photo of my dog.
Then there was Rex. Some tan youngin’ with impostor syndrome: “I don’t belong here with these people; take me back to the pound!” Picked him out from a slew of depressed pooches after he licked my chubby boy fingers through the bars. The owner of the pound, a fat hick with a tractor accent, told us Rex was born in “that there gutter over there.” Adopted the rough pupper, and the dog’s animosity never resided. That damn dog hated my guts. I gave it real t-bones and the dog preferred processed chicken nibbles -- thought, “What the hell is this?” After about a week, we gave him back, and for the first time since getting Rex, we saw him wag his tail at the fat hick lady. “He just was born here,” she explained. Birthed in a prison and thinking it’s home.
Wished you a happy life, Rex.
After that, we thought, “fuck dogs, go fish.” Got with a normal fifteen gallon, filled with freshwater and Walmart guppies and a pleco (those algae sucking horrors). Guppies soon fell ill and sank like rocks. I received a lesson that day: clean the filter. I learned that, and shortly forgot it. "Get a variety of fish, maybe that's the issue," Mom suggested. She also blamed Walmart.
Real historical photo of my fish.
Moved to a new house during my eighth grade year, and unsure where to put the tank, we placed it in the dark corner under the staircase. Worst decision of my life. I knew I was supposed to feed my fish and give them light and attention, but I, their glorious god of fish flakes, rarely returned. When I did feed them, which was once or twice a week, it became a frenzy, like piranhas in the Amazon. Tank turned green and white fuzz got to their scales. Platys were the only fish left. All their fins got chopped up and some lost their dorsals. Cannabalism had set in, but love was still there. About fourteen generations of Platys went through that tank, all them living off the dead bodies and shit of their relatives. Pleco didn’t care though – he spent his days sucking on algae bloom and Platy carcasses. After nine months of this inter-generational charcuterie board, Mom stepped in, saying, “That’s abuse, Donnie. What if that was you?” I cleaned it that weekend. Replaced it with fresh water and a brand new filter. Upgraded the food to organic. Raked the cemetary out of the aquarium pebbles. I put them all back in. Still not sure how, but because the water quality surpassed their expectations, it shocked their systems and within the day, they all died. Gave them all proper burials. I put the tank on Craigslist and got a buyer. Gave him everything, but he asked, “What happened to the fish?” And I handed over the sole survivor: the pleco.
So long, fishies.
Real historical photo of my hermit crabs.
Alright, aquatic creatures ain’t my forte, I thought, so let’s stick to land animals. Something small, nothing too much of a hastle. “Mom,” I said. “I want crabs. I’ll call them Hermes and Hermione, the hermit crabbies.” She wasn’t sure if I should have another animal. “Okay,” she relented, “but please take care of them.” Went to Petco and got two mini muffin sized crustaceans complete with a clear box and a beginner kit. Sand, rocks, fun wood – we lavished them a small cedar wood saucer for water. I soon found out they didn’t do much except crawl into the sand and make mounds for me to clean up. I gave them plenty of water and food. Constantly cleaning shit; boy, was there a lot of shit. Then the fateful day came. Woke up on a weekend morning. Found Hermes out of his shell, laying in the water saucer, looking like an off-pink shriveled slime. It freaked me out and I didn’t know how to save him, but it didn’t matter if I did – it was too late. I buried him that day right next to the fishs' stones. Learned from Google that hermit crabs can experience severe anxiety and that he had something of a panic attack. (Who would have thought!) As for Hermione, well, after the Hermes funeral, I cleaned the tank outside. Hermione was with me nearby, sitting in a small tupperware. When I returned to check on her, the container was flipped, and she was gone. An escape for the best, I guess.
Goodbye, crabbies.
Literally my dog, found these photos in the attic.
My last pet was Wishbone. Yes, named after the PBS dog; this jack russell terrier was excited all the time. Junior year of high school made me never home, but when he saw me, it was elation. Had him for a week. The dog ran around the family business, and one day he saw us loading trucks and there was highway noise and bunches of people and Wishbone panicked. Ran into the neighbor’s field of wheat. I chased after him, screaming his name. He looked back. Saw me. And kept sprinting away. I ran out of breathe, and I watched the jumping dog dissapear into the field’s horizon.
Potential historical photo of my future reptile.
I spoke to my roommate about birds – “Umm,” he replied. The thought of a turtle or tortoise is also on my mind; a living memento mori that creeps around the house. I would love that, actually. Everyone tries to convince me about cats, or getting a little dog. No cats for me please and, in my opinion, tiny dogs are bullshit. Either a reptile that will outlive me for the sake of constant existential stress, or a big dog so I can play fetch. A turtle today, a dog tomorrow – maybe when the day comes, when I’m sitting on my Texas ranch, I’ll have a dog again.
Think I will call him Charlie.
Real historical photo of me, circa mid-2030s, lol jk #VisionBoardsDontDoShitYaLame-os