A Lifetime of Unconditional Love

Photograph of Gypsy by the CitySon Philosopher

Of all the pets we’ve had, Gypsy – named for entertainer, Gypsy Rose Lee - is the most reserved with her love.  Perhaps she needs a little vino to losen her inhibitions.  

From Brooklyn, New York to Menlo Park, CA, I have enjoyed a lifetime of unconditional love . . . not from my parents, from my pets.  They love us skinny or fat, young or old, rich or poor, good mood or not so good.

There were a few goldfish and more than a few turtles in my life when I was growing up in one Brooklyn apartment or another. As for cats, dogs or birds, though, no.  They were not allowed. “Filthy”, my mother said, “And why would we spend money on food and health care for an animal when we have a hard enough time feeding ourselves and paying our own doctor bills.”  As a kid, of course, I didn’t like that.  As an adult, even an animal-loving adult, I do have sympathy for her position.

Due to my mother’s feelings on pet ownership, my first land-animal pet-companion didn’t enter my life until well after I was married.  An odd little mutt, he was probably some child’s Christmas gift, too hard to manage and abandoned. He knew a sucker when he saw one. He found me one Easter Sunday after Mass and followed me home.  I couldn’t shake him and didn’t really want to.  We almost named him Pasquale, appropriate to the season and the Italian neighborhood in the Gravesend section of Brooklyn where we lived at the time.  We ended up calling him “Buddy,” more a name for the ‘50s than the ‘70s. 

Buddy was a plain brown thing, nondescript but for a dramatic tail that arched up and around like a big “C” over his back.  It was covered with long, silky, hair that burst from its base  into a wild, cream-colored fane.  When my son was old enough to walk and talk, the dog became his boon companion. Buddy’s distinctive tail was a source of fascination.  “Where’s Buddy,” you might ask. “In the bedroom with his tail,” my son would answer. 

This child and his dog were as inseparable as the dog and his tail.  After we left home one day, Buddy jumped from the window of our third-floor apartment, nearly impaling himself on the wrought iron fence below.  He survived and tried to trail us to my mother-in-law’s, a mile away on Ryder Avenue.  As for my son, he always felt compelled to share his wealth with Buddy.  One Thanksgiving I didn’t notice until too late that half our dinner was gone.  Ensconed in his high chair which I’d pulled close to the table, my toddler was digging into the platter of turkey with two fists, stuffing his mouth full with one and passing turkey to the dog with the other.

In time, Buddy was followed by Skippy, named for Skippy the Bush Kangaroo, the star of an Austrialian show of the same name that had aired in New York the winter before he came to live with us.  Skippy looked a lot like Buddy but didn’t have Buddy’s glorious tail.  He made up for this shortcoming with endless affection and a huge sense of play.  Whatever we were doing, he’d have to get in the act, whether it was scrimmaging on the living-room rug or taking a bath.  I’d have to lock him out of the bathroom or he’d jump right in the tub with whomever was bathing.  

My mother would sniff with disapproval as one pet followed another and more so when there were multiple pets.  Cats were a special problem.  They had litter boxes.  “How could you have that thing in your house?” said Mom, her nose wrinkled with disgust. 

The first cat was Tigger, a tom who had to prowl outside every night. We got Tigger shortly after we moved to San Francisco. He had a macho thing going, all bluster and no bite. There was a stray that would come to the deck window and peek in at Tigger from under the lush and brilliantly colored fuscha that grew there. Tigger would ignore the stray until she turned away.  Then he would hiss and growl and bang at the glass.  Every night we had to let Tigger out. One morning Tigger didn’t come home.  I found him on the lawn beaten and broken. Our poor little “tough-guy” had met a real bully.

Pricilla, a black-and-white shorthaired cat, came to us for my son’s eighth birthday and lived almost twenty years, longer than any of our other pets.  She was strong willed and kept everyone, dogs included, in line.  Her temperament was very much like Mom’s. They didn’t cuddle (heaven forbid!), but there was a look that would pass between them, a look of shared superiority.  I used to think that when one went the other would too.  Pricilla died a few months after my mom and of the same health issues.  If cats are allowed in heaven, I’m sure Mom and Pris are together monitoring our activities and dishing over all our foibles and follies.

Around the early 80s I discovered Shar Peis.  I put out the word that I wanted one and that I wanted one from a Hong Kong breeder.  One Saturday, an acquaintance called to invite us to see a recently arrived litter. While we were visiting the importer, it came time for the pups to go out.  In an orderly and single file, they followed their mother out through the doggie door, took care of business, and followed her back in again.   Shar Peis, you see, are “house broken” by their mothers. For anyone who has ever had to train a pup, this is a compelling selling point.  Always for the underdog, we chose the runt of the litter.  His official name was Xang Xang Ah Mah.  We just called him “Gus.”

Though we bathed him regularly, Gus had a distinctive odor.  This is not uncommon for Shar Peis. He looked like a pile of dirty laundry when he was curled-up sleeping, and had a soft palette that resulted in endless hours of snoring.   It didn’t take long for us to realize that Gus clearly saw the family as a pack with my husband as top dog. (Hummm . . .)  I came next, then Gus, and then my son.  Due to this pecking order, Gus saw no reason to mind my son.

Gus was also territorial.  At that time, I ran my business, a communication service, out of our home.   One day, a client came to have a sales presentation written.  Gus, growling deeply, focused an intimidating and intractable glare on my client.  A bit shaken, the gentleman asked, “What’s the problem?” “Oh,” said I joking as I led Gus into another room and closed the door, “that’s our collection agent.”  The man immediately wrote a check for payment in advance.  Gus bravely fought cancer for two years.  He succumbed to it at the young age of five.

Through the years, we’ve had a rat (Sherlock), finches and love birds*, hermit crabs, hamsters, a rabbit (Thumper), goldfish and beta, many cats, and more recently a rescued Greyhound (Feyd) who died of cancer a few years ago. My cat, Pywacket, soon followed him.  We had an orange shorthaired cat, Quincy, sweet and so loveable, another rescued and suffering from diabetes, hyperthyroidism, and other ills.  We tried to save him with injections and IV every day.  He is now long gone and much missed for his sweet, patient, and loving manner. Ben was another foundling, so tiny when we got him that we had to feed him with a little bottle.  He was joined by Pumpkin, discovered in a Sacramento gutter, punchy with heat, dehydration, and choking from a too tight collar with no ID.  I brought him home and my husband had to use tools to get the collar off.  Pumpkin was never able to take care of himself, but Ben adopted him, groomed him, led him to food, drink, and litter box. So, we had Ben and Boots at that time, and Ben had Pumpkin. Now, between our two housholds, we are down to just one cat, Gypsy, who lives with my son and his wife, who is now “mom,” caring for Gypsy, loving her, and much prefering to call her “Frejoli.”

These “younger brothers and sisters,” as the some saints of some religions are wont to say, are such sweet delight. When they are well and with us, it’s a little bit of heaven; but when they go, it’s heartrending.  On the other hand, I have to face the unshakable reality that there will always be strays in need of a home and the undeniable attraction of beauty, play, and unconditional love they provide offers some guarantee of adoption.

I think by now even Mom understands . . . I had a dream the other night.  I saw Mom in heaven, leaning on her cane, surrounded by all the pets that are no longer with us.  She was clearly caring for them.   “I thought you didn’t approve, Mom,” I said to her.  “It’s okay,” she responded.  “It’s all fun now.  No need for litter boxes or vet visits here.”

* An important health warning about birds: I feel compelled to discourage their ownership.  I have a serious, life-threatening interstitial lung disease, which my doctors have reason to believe may be from the birds. Apparently it often is.  This is a progressive disease for which there is no cure.  It is a  difficult and expensive disease to manage. Originally diagnosed by lung biopsy almost ten years ago, I was given two years to live. Thanks to fine doctors, excellent complementary care, and the will of my son, I’m still here, though the condition still progresses with unfortuante effect.  I am lucky to have health care, which many do not, and to live a rich life of the mind despite some physical and financial constraints and the need to attach to an oxygen delivery system. Nonetheless, I don’t wish this on anyone else. Please betware.