If My Pets Were People

An Ode to All the Animals I've Loved

Pierre was here before me. He was my mom’s baby before I was, and he never fully forgave me for showing up. He was a persnickety little Frenchman who only tolerated me and viewed me as the obnoxious American tourist who invaded his space. When I still couldn’t pronounce my “p”s, I called him Fierre. I don’t think he appreciated the butchering of his name nor the fact that my mom painted his toenails and often made him wear bows. He lived until I was in middle school, and I did love him. He was my starter dog.

Overlapping Pierre were Pebbles 1 and Pebbles 2. I loved the Flintstones (obviously) and demonstrated my devotion with my first two cats’ names. One was black and one was white. I don’t remember which was which, but I do remember that I equal parts loved and slightly feared them. They were the elusive, cooler older sisters I never had.

Next came M.E. (pronounced Emmy - don’t remember the meaning of his name), a shaggy mess who kept escaping our yard and fleeing for wide open spaces. He was the goofy, lovable, seemingly sometimes stoned, free spirit uncle type. My parents ended up giving him away to a landscaper who lived on some land. I’m still mad at them about this.

Maxwell was a sweet midsized mutt who I think showed up to distract from the impending doom of my parents’ marriage. He was caramel colored with white spots and had only a mild obsession with squirrels. Maxwell was a typical everyman. He got along with everyone (except squirrels) and sort of blended in with the scenery.

Puff (full name Puffalump) is the mascot of my childhood and my first true animal love. He was a bitchy, gives zero f**ks Sealpoint Siamese who did not suffer fools but also loved me immensely. (I picked him out at the pet store - they weren’t considered portals to Hell back then - and he was my first baby.) Puff was the snooty professor who never gives more than a B+ and assigns a major paper over the holiday break. He was clearly the one in charge and let you know it on a regular basis. When Puff was in a mood, he would dive bomb my ankles full force, teeth and claws blazing. When I ran, he attacked more fiercely. Once he chased me around the backyard going kamikaze on me as I ran in circles screaming like my hair was on fire. My dad barreled out of the house, swooped in to save the day (and my ankles) and threw Puff in the pool. This was not the rescue I had in mind. Now I was screaming at the very real prospect of my beloved (although violent) Puffalump drowning. But not to worry. That cat was a bad ass. He swam to the side as if he regularly practiced his laps. My dad scooped him out and set him back on the grass. I ran to my room to escape the horror of the whole scene. Shortly after, Puff joined me on my bed where he licked himself dry while I Band Aided my ankles.

Next came Winston, a yippie little Yorkie who chose my mom as his person and didn’t have much to do with me - or Puff. He was the sleepy little Englishman who could always be found in the corner of his local pub. Winston mostly hung out on the bed with my mom where they shared soap operas, M&Ms and a strong distaste for my now-gone-from-the-household dad.

Gonzo the calico cat came after Puff and was a sweet, shy lover who split her time between hiding and snuggling. She was the neighborhood friend who came over to play but actually just wanted to stalk your brother. I think she had a secret crush on Winston as you could often find her hunkered next to him on my mom’s bed.

Schizo (I realize his name is exceedingly un-PC, but it was the 80s) was the cat version of a bridge between my childhood and almost-adulthood. A birthday present from my college roommate, he climbed the curtains and gave our whole apartment a flea infestation. Schizo-Bitso, as I called him, was the town eccentric that equal parts entertained and freaked you out. He was the only cat I’ve ever known who loved riding in the car - so much so that he would jump on the hood if you were driving away without him. Once I was pulling out of the driveway after removing him from my hood when I happened to spot the car’s shadow on the ground. The silhouette sported a regal cat sitting on the roof. Schizo would not be denied his joy ride.

Dolby was the first pet my husband and I got together (although truthfully I went and adopted him when Chris was out of town). That cat loved us both equally and slept in the bed between us. He was the semi-nerdy kid who just wanted to be friends with everyone. Once he got accidentally locked in the refrigerator for a few hours (I’m not saying whose fault it was but it wasn't mine), and upon discovery, hopped right out as if he was exiting the bus that had just pulled up to school. He didn’t even hold a grudge, although I may have.

What can I say that will even come close to expressing the supreme specialness of Lulu? She was my soul cat - the one I still miss every day even though she passed more than 20 years ago. A stray who followed me around a boutique one day, she was the best non-purchase I ever made. I didn’t buy anything at that store, but I did go home with a longhaired, multicolored Maine Coon-esque cat who ended up being the (animal) love of my life. Lulu was the rare combination of sexpot and girl next door. She was elegant and beautiful and a little exotic but also gentle and kind and loving to all (except for my kids after they came along - sticky-fingered, crawling people-creatures were not her favorite.) Lulu was the lady who always wanted to look her best. I’d hear her galloping down the hall any time I dried my hair, then she’d pounce onto the bathroom counter and jockey for me to point the blowdryer her way. She slept curled up in my arms with her perfect little head tucked under my chin. God, I loved that cat. She’s one of the main reasons I hope there’s a Heaven so that we can meet again.

Spike came next, and although her name makes her seem like a feisty shit starter, she was actually shy and a little bit weird. Spike was the awkward girl at school who hid behind bangs and read morose poetry alone in her room. But she also always had the potential to do the movie montage makeover where she blossoms into the hot girl followed around by all the jocks with their tongues hanging out. Spike mostly stayed curled up on our bed unless she was hiding underneath it. But any time our friend Chris (a different Chris than my husband) came over, she would come trotting out from her hideaway, jump on the back of his chair and proceed to wrap herself around his neck like a brazen little hussy.

Rounding out our four-cats-at-one-time period, Marley had been tossed out of a car on the highway when I found her on my way to work one day. (Yes, I used to collect cats like some people collected Beanie Babies.) I tried to talk myself out of what I was witnessing as I zoomed past the black heap on the side of the road. But I took the next exit and looped back around to what I hoped I hadn’t actually seen. She was crumpled and bloody but still alive. I sped to the nearest vet’s office I could think of (this was before cell phones) and agreed to pay for her care even though she was not my cat. The vet did not think she would make it, and I left her there with little expectation of ever seeing her again. But make it she did. Marley was mangled but mouthy. She meowed more than any other cat we’ve ever had. One of her front paws was permanently paralyzed, and she dragged it around like Linus with his blanket. You’d hear it whack into the furniture when she jumped onto it. This never bothered her as she had lost all feeling in that paw, but it always made us cringe. Marley was the steel magnolia survivor lady who just got on with it but who also loved a good gossip sesh and a glass of chardonnay.

Next came Vegas, our first dog child. This is the dog we would clone and bring back from the dead if we could. He was Tom Hanks in dog form. He was undeniably lovable but also smart, funny and adaptable to all kinds of situations. His rescue was both serendipitous and meant to be. As I sat at a very busy intersection returning to my office from lunch one day, a yellow blur caught my eye. A burly lab mix was running scared as cars honked and whizzed past him. I struggled in my driver’s seat about what to do. He was already down the road in the opposite direction from where I was headed. Traffic was thick, and I had to get back to work. I returned to my office with a lump in my gut and tried to push the dog’s fate out of my mind the rest of the day. Chris and I went out to dinner that night. The restaurant was several miles away from where I had spotted the dog at lunchtime. But as we pulled away from the parking lot, a yellow blur once again caught my eye. The same dog was now running down an alleyway across from the restaurant. It was fate. He had been running all day and had beaten the odds, so we named him Vegas. We had to tie him to a tree the first night at home, because our new house didn’t have a fence yet, and we didn’t know how this beefy beast would be with our cats. Our worries were needless though. Vegas was a gentle giant who let our eventual babies grab fistfuls of his fur to pull themselves up to standing. He was the epitome of a very good boy.

Ruby was a truck stop waitress with a heart of gold. The one who’s not the sharpest tool in the shed but who makes all her customers feel like they’re her favorite. Ruby was a stray puppy eating styrofoam food trash in the middle of the street outside my office before I scooped her up and took her home. She was the love of Vegas’s life. As soft and gentle as Vegas was, he would cut a bitch who messed with his Ruby.

Gizmo belonged to the ladies who rented the garage apartment of our next door neighbors. One day the police came knocking to ask if we had seen them. We had not. Those fugitives had absconded in the night and abandoned Gizmo to the streets. Our cats were indoor cats only, so we took Gizmo in and tried to integrate him into the household. It was a rocky start when he announced his arrival by peeing on the drapes, but eventually he became an indoor/outdoor hybrid. If we didn’t let him outside when he wanted, he turned into Jack Nicholson in The Shining. He’d get an evil look in his eyes and nonverbally threaten to f**k things up if we did not comply with his demands. But most of the time he was like Jack Nicholson in As Good as It Gets - a lovable reformed playboy who settled happily into domestic life.

All of our married-life pets up to this point were either senior citizens or dead by the time our kids arrived. Although Josie and Keaton overlapped with Vegas, Ruby and a couple of the cats, they have very few, if any, memories of them. So when they were in kindergarten, we decided it was time for the pets who would define their childhood. Trixie and her littermates were dumped by the river in a cardboard box. My bestie Teresa adopted one of her brothers and convinced me to take Trixie. (I think Chris was out of town again, God bless him.) Trixie was like a crossover of the Molly Shannon SNL character who smells her own armpits and the Cheri Oteri SNL character who’s the perky cheerleader counterpart to Will Ferrell. Trixie was a bit nervous and insecure but also hyper and high energy. (I think I’d be a little needy too if I had been dumped by the river in a cardboard box.) She was also smart and sweet and super speedy. That girl could run faster than any dog we’ve ever had. She loved our son best and was often found snuggled up with him on his bed. Trixie lived through the end of his junior year of high school. When it was time for her to go, my son wanted to be the one who was with her when she crossed over the Rainbow Bridge. That was also one of the days he crossed over from boy to man.

Felix was my daughter’s dog, a Golden Retriever we named after my beloved Grandad. My grandad was kind, open hearted, sensible, steadfast and generous. Felix the dog was all of those things except for sensible. He was also a bit goofy and more than a bit anxious. He was the guy who’s charming and likable on a first date but spills his water and sweats through his shirt. He chewed tables and chairs and shoes and crown moulding. But his big brown eyes were chocolate lagoons you could swim in forever.

Daisy showed up at our neighborhood park one day. The kids took her on the slide, pulled her in the wagon, carried her around, then begged to carry that cream colored kitten home. She was just a baby at the time, and so were my kids, but we had Daisy until after Josie and Keaton went away to college. You know that mom who never gets ruffled, goes to yoga five days a week, doesn’t raise her voice, and remains Zen even when the toilet’s overflowing and the toddler is trying to put the hamster in its mouth? Me neither. But that was Daisy. She was the chill dog we never had.

Belle was our hospice dog. My aunt and uncle’s neighbors abandoned her in a backyard where she cracked most of her teeth eating rocks. She was old and broken by the time my aunt and uncle discovered her, but they couldn’t keep her due to the territorial nature of their own dog. (The only dog that ever bit me, by the way.) So we agreed to care for Belle during the time she had left. She was the prototypical sweet little old lady with Kleenex and butterscotch candy in her pocketbook. Speaking of candy, we came home from trick or treating that Halloween to find she had pillaged the bowl of candy we had left by the front door. She had lollipop sticks and gooey candy wrappers stuck in her fur and the happiest, proudest smile on her face. She was grizzled and gray and moved really slowly. But she lived her final days knowing she was loved.

I’m going to skip the series of fish (may they rest in peace) brought home by my kids. They never lasted long, but we did have a toilet funeral for one named Benji.

And now we come to our current beloveds. Ron actually showed up in 2009 and is still going strong-ish at almost 16 years old. He’s the one we’ve had longer than any other and the only one that Chris brought home without consulting me. (Touche!) I’m so glad they found each other when a scrawny orange and white kitten trotted up to Chris in a parking lot. The kids named him Ron after the Harry Potter character, and it fits. He’s loyal, loving and always wants to be with you. He’ll stare deeply into your eyes with his big green ones then literally use his paws to pull your face towards him and give you a kiss. He’s a major talker (often at 2:00AM, much to our chagrin) and likes to be held like a baby. He’s a love who sometimes seems more dog than cat. Ron comes when you call, licks you all over and can never get enough chin scratches.

Wrigley is my child replacement dog. The year leading up to becoming an empty nester, I kept threatening Chris that I would be getting an emotional support puppy. He was not supportive of my plan and would shake his head “no.” Fine, I retorted. I’ll name it No-No, but I will be getting a puppy. I didn't name it No-No, but I did give a nod to Chicago for Chris because that’s where his office is located. Wrigley is the boss who demands you work late on a holiday eve. He wants what he wants when he wants it and will not take “no.” Ironic, yes? Unlike Ron the cat, he does not come when you call. I like to say he’s an asshole, but he’s my asshole. He’s also fiercely devoted to me, an absolutely gorgeous Husky/Blue Heeler mix with one brown eye and one blue eye, and a playful, joyful, affectionate dictator who has my heart. My kids say I love him more than them, and sometimes it’s true.*

Roxie, a black German Shepherd-Border Collie mix, is our Covid dog. She is every bit the anxious, needy, clinger you would expect. She was being offered for free on Facebook, and I think I decided to rescue her out of pandemic boredom. You know all those online videos of the dads who didn’t want the dogs that they now share their Barcalounger, steak and secrets with? That’s Chris. He was actually not very happy with me after Roxie joined our circus. But now they are besotted with each other. I wish he would look at me the way he looks at Roxie, I sometimes tell him. We call her Sporty Spice, and that’s pretty much who she is. She’s the Energizer Bunny mixed with an addict whose fix is a squishy rubber ball. She does. not. stop. We can take her for a three-mile trail hike, a run at the dog park, and toss the ball to her for another half hour, and she still wants more. But she’s also sleek and beautiful and the most loving and sweet of all the dogs we’ve ever had.

We briefly had my mom’s cat Ollie. We had to take him in after she died, but he was 16 when he got here and 17 when he died. Ollie was the quintessential grumpy old man. He spent the first month with us hiding under the bed, but once he emerged from the darkness, he glommed onto Chris like a barnacle on an old boat. Ollie would look at Chris the way Chris looks at Roxie. He was crotchety and loud and demanding, but Ollie found his true love during the short time he was with us.

Last on the list is our current garage cat. He’s a neighborhood stray who was dumped with his litter a few years ago. He’s the only one left (there are coyotes and bobcats and hawks around these parts) and has defied the odds and the dickheads who dumped him. He sleeps in our garage most nights. We have quite the cat apartment for him in there with unlimited food, several cozy beds to choose from, and a litter box. He usually sleeps on our cars, though. We tried integrating him into the house, but he is definitely a man of the street. He’s the wanderer who can’t be tied down. A guy who wants to see the world. A battle-scarred tough guy with some softness under the surface. He doesn’t like to be picked up, but he does adore being petted. I named him NOC (not our cat), and we call him Noc-Noc. But other neighbors call him Pickles and Thomas and I don’t know what else. He gets around.

I’m sure there will be additions to this list before I die. I have the same belief about the animals in our lives as I do about the people. Some souls are just meant to find each other.

Chris and I always say animals are better than people. Sure, they’re messy, expensive, and they require a lot of time, commitment and care. They ruin rugs, interrupt sleep, destroy shoes, and throw up on your stuff. Ultimately, they break your heart. But along the way, they also teach us about loyalty, being present, appreciating the simple things, taking life as it comes, and unconditional love. Mostly the love part. Always the love.

*This is mostly not true, Josie & Keaton.

Wrigley, Ron & Roxie

Some Current Distractions

• Magazines - Yes, I do most of my reading on Substack now, and I know they are inching their way toward dinosaur status. But I will forever heart a glossy, printed on paper, hold in your hand magazine. My adoration borders on addiction, as I subscribe to almost as many magazines as I do Substack newsletters. And I am not ashamed of my habit. Not one bit.

• Framebridge is an affordable, convenient custom framing service. You choose the style of frame you want, they send you the packaging to ship them your art, photos or even frameable 3D things, and they send you back your finished, ready to display piece.

• The only habit that rivals my magazine obsession is my tea collection. My family calls our pantry the “tea closet.” I have many favorite brands and flavors, but one I’m loving now is Harney & Sons Fruits D’Alsace.

• Disclaimer on Apple TV - I missed the book but just finished the binge-worthy series. I can’t really tell you what it’s about (besides revenge and the stories we carry inside us) without giving stuff away, but Cate Blanchette and Kevin Kline are at the absolute height of their powers.

• I’m a big believer in life soundtracks - personal playlists that match different life moments. So when I was recently in a high-pivot phase after I lost my mom, retired from a 40-year dance career, and started a new design business all in the span of a few months, I curated my Fresh Start Playlist. I wanted a mix of energizing, upbeat - but not banging - tracks. Songs soft enough to lift the spirit but rhythmic enough to rev you up. And I always like an eclectic mosaic of music in my mixes. So here you have pop, dance, hip hop, old school jazz and alternative tunes all playing nicely together. Have a listen. Whether you’re closing a chapter or headed in a new direction, a little motivating music is a great place to start.