Guppy Chow

In which our Hero reviews the Pet situation from almost pre His story to the pre sent

My parents are the first generation of their family to not work the land. And even that only after they came of age, finished their studies, and moved so far away that “America” meant “North” and not just “United States of.” They were raised on a farm, and unlike some of my other relatives who either gave in to children or whimsy, they inherited the general farm attitude that animals work.

Not that they are unworthy of affection when they’re around, because my parents and their siblings back home seem to enjoy the animals. But when I was young, pets were mostly dirty, and frowned upon, and so I had to make do with my younger cousins who turned out not to fetch worth a damn. (Note to self, need to tell cousins I just answered a question about pets with them. Heh.)

And yet, inexplicably, I have a vivid and distinct memory of having a goldfish in what now I know was a 10 gallon tank. Just one fish. No memory of what happened to it. No trauma of a missing pet. I don’t remember any affection or excitement, I just remember that it was… there.

Other than that, there was a wild bird that we rescued in the back yard and let recover in my wicker wastebasket (till it was up to flying again and bashed about the house until we could shoo it out a door)

That was it for pets till the modern era. My ex loved cats so I briefly had cats. They shed, but they also enjoyed playing with me, so we got along pretty good.

Ironically, or poetically against that first recollection, I had a tank of fish that I enjoyed far beyond my ability to explain and would love to set up a large tank in my den. Glass cats, cory cats, ghost shrimp, a spotted puffer, an ex snail.

That’s it for the pets who I’ve known and fed.

On the other hand, my family goes back to farmers. So I’ve hung out with cows, goats, blistered my nose to a pig pen, and picked up chicks like nobody’s business. The little buggers were marvelous and watching the horde (that’s the collective noun, right? A horde of chicks?) mill about mama hen was endearing and besides, they are so *soft.*

And my grandfather, and now my dad’s baby brother have always had dogs, and one of them is always named Kaiser and I can’t explain it, but it’s just right. A few years ago, I was shocked to my toes to discover my dad who’d always grumped about the idea of having a pet was… what’s the verb for the one where you see the kid inside?

My dad loves dogs. Not likes, loves. My grandmother was chasing the poor over excited nutcase out of the house with a raised broom (and no hope of catching him, but the dog wasn’t bright enough to realize that) and my dad had that little boy face that sometime peeks out, and you could see the thought bubble saying “Aw poor doggie”

Oh wait, this was supposed to be about me. Oh well. Between my dad and his mom it was all I could do not to laugh at both of them.