Long before we were married, my husband informed me that he'd like to buy a pet rat after we're married. My response ("Negative, my dear man!") was certainly not surprising. But the reasons behind it might be a slightly more out of the ordinary: they're gross, they live in sewers and and barns, they escape from their cages on a nightly basis, we'd have to find someone to care for him while we travel, and, most importantly: I'm not ready for a pet.
See, there are some things I just know I shouldn't have: expensive technological gadgets, a head massager , the creepiest book ever, shoes with built in toes, and responsibility for household animals. All my pets just turn out to be lunatics.
The first four of these might make sense to you. I've had a computer set on fire, I would wear a head massager as a hat every day if I owned one, no one should own the creepiest book ever, and it is difficult to think of an article of clothing more ugly than toe shoes in the entire history of the world (and that includes argyle footie pajamas).
But pets? Well, it all started with Katie, Luther, and Gingerbread, my family's first (and last, my father ardently promised himself after the whole ordeal was over) rodent pets.
Katie and Luther were two white mice who lived on the left side of the glass cage that they shared with Gingerbread, our hamster who was not named after a historical religious figure. They all seemed quite happy with their living situation until Gingerbread managed to crawl over the wooden barrier that separated them and devour poor Katie. It was only days later that Luther died of a broken heart and Gingerbread died of indigestion.
It doesn't stop there, though. The next Christmas I received a gigapet, Digi, in our annual family gift exchange. To be honest, I played with him for two weeks or so, and then he went missing. Months later, I found him under my bed - dead. Suffocated in digital Digi poo. It covered the entire screen, in fact, and trust me, even a 7-year-old knows there is no recovering from that.
Then there was Kappy, our first and again, LAST cat. We would actually try to give the whole cat thing another shot about 8 years later, but our beloved kitten was absorbed (not kidding) while in utero by her mother, and therefore no longer available for purchase. But that's a different story.
Kappy started out as a small grey kitten that we adopted from my aunt and cousins. We happened to pick her up on my birthday, and so of course I began to say that she was mine. My family told me again and again that she was the whole family's cat... but it wouldn't be long before we swapped stories.
Kappy became as fat as she was long. She had evil green eyes that glowed in the dark, strange lumps all over her body, and a wretched character, comprable in my mind only to literary villianesses such as Grendel's mother and Medea. My brother Nate was her favorite, her favorite, and she woke him every morning by clawing at his body so that he'd climb out of bed to prepare her breakfast.
The worst, though, was staring into the darkness, and then sensing that the bedroom door was slowly opening. A strange smell would overtake the room and I'd force myself to peer over the bed. BAM! Green eyes stared back at me. She'd jump on top of me, make herself comfortable, and then just stare.
I'd lie there for what felt like hours, not daring to fall asleep for fear that if I moved at all, she'd claim my eyeballs and display them on her mantle over the fireplace in her evil fortress. Kappy died of a strange infection that I will not describe because it's disgusting, but I don't think a single family member cried about it or even missed her at all.
There are many more crazy pet stories - my escape artist turtle, my hermit crab, Javier, who was for all intents and purposes just a shell, and whose food smelled like death, our golden retriever Bilbo, who fully digested one of my favorite socks...the list goes on. And I'm certain it will continue to grow as I think I would like a dog someday. But for now, it's just my darling husband and I, and I think at this point that's all the craziness our new little home and landlady can handle.
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