It was a cold fall day in 1974. Eight year old me sat on the couch, watching football. The teams were the St. Louis Cardinals and the New York Jets. It is the first NFL football game I remember watching from start to finish. I wasn’t really all that in to football yet but the game isn’t what made the moment memorable. Curled on my lap, purring softly lay may cat, Boots. She was a former feral kitten somehow rescued by friends of ours and presented to me on my birthday. I don’t think my Mom was necessarily consulted. I can’t remember if I expressed a desire for a cat or not but it seems likely.
When Boots came to us, she was not a trusting cat and spent most of her time warily hiding from us and mostly avoiding contact. Once in a while, a paw would shoot out from under the bed to swat playfully at a passing foot. But then the fall day came and my parents and brother left the house to spend the afternoon running errands. It was just me and Boots at home. I don’t remember how I came to be sitting on the couch watching football and I don’t remember how Boots wound up curled in my lap. I just remember how delighted I was that this formerly wary animal that I called “mine” had suddenly decided I was okay and lay peacefully sleeping and purring as I softly caressed her neck. For a young feral, this was probably the best it ever got. I remember not wanting to move to refresh my drink or use the bathroom for fear of disrupting the absolute serenity of the moment. Eventually, though, I gently picked her up and moved her to the couch and did my thing. When I cam back, Boots was patiently waiting for me to resume the activities and quickly settled in on my lap again. I remember thinking “She likes me!” A few nights later, Boots came in from outside and presented me with the ultimate feline tribute: A dead mole she had caught. “She loves me!”
Sometime shortly thereafter we left the house in Woodstown where Boots came in to my life and moved back to Elsinboro. Elsinboro was a boyhood paradise. Endless woods out the back door and the river and vast array of fishing not far away. But at the time for me, the bigger deal was my cousin’s farm around the corner. My best boyhood friend was my cousin Donald. In typical farmer fashion, Donald had 3 brothers, and his grandparents (my Aunt Francis and Uncle Ben) lived in their big, 3 story farm house. There were few days that went by that I wasn’t on the farm either running around with Donald or by myself. I probably ate more meals at the farm than at home. I was part of the farming family.
Throughout the years at the farm there were always animals and not just livestock. There were always dogs, an abundance of farm cats, and my cousin had a big, white rabbit named Thumper. I loved farm life and absorbed all aspects. Dogs were always present, but they weren’t like our dogs. They were always friendly, but lived out in a barn and were never in the house. Donald’s oldest cousin Ben had two lab mixes for a while. They literally spent all their time in a shed with a wire enclosure. I don’t ever once remember them being let out. There was a husky for a while too. She lived tethered to a run in the yard. The cats, of course, had free run everywhere and served as key players in keeping farm vermin to a minimum. Thumper spent his days in a raised hutch by the straw barn.
Looking back now, I know this was not the lesson in how to have pets. At the time, it seemed like gospel. I’m not sure how I soaked in the way “pets” were kept on the farm and ignored the lessons from my own house. Our dogs, of which there were several, lived their lives outside and inside. While we didn’t coddle them quite as much as dogs are spoiled today, they were very much a part of the family. My Mom and Dad were always looking to include them. We lived in a very rural area, which didn’t require leashes and our dogs had the run of the yard. They were well trained and never left it. Likewise they had the run of the house. They were never on furniture, always well behaved, and always included. Somehow, this model of pet ownership escaped me in lieu of the farm method. On the farm, pets existed for the purpose of existence much like the dairy cows that occupied the barnyard.
Once in a while Donald and I would play with Thumper. We would take him out of the hutch, let him hop around a bit, pet him and put him back. I decided I liked rabbits and they seemed like an easy pet to own and convinced Mom and Dad to let me get one. There was a woman in our township who bred domestic rabbits as pets and we visited her. I focused on getting a rabbit and ignored how well kept her hutches were. I ignored how the rabbits had access to safe play areas with toys. I ignored what she said about having them in the house and litter training them. I just wanted a rabbit.
So it was that Fiver came in to my life. If you ever read “Watership Down” you know where the name Fiver comes from. For a couple years Fiver was a novelty item. Dad converted an old greenhouse box into a hutch. One side was covered and the other side open to the sky. The back could be opened for cleaning purposes. There I put Fiver and there Fiver mostly stayed. Once in a while, mostly with prodding from Mom or Dad, I would get her out and let her play in the yard for a bit. As I recall, it never lasted long. I remember she liked the snow. She would make little snow balls with her nose. After a while, she’d get cold and hop over to me and look up to be picked up. She knew me, and trusted me to provide for her. Yet I let her spend most of her days in that hutch.
I would go down and give her food and water. When she heard my voice she would scamper out and look at me hopefully. In hingsight, I’m sure she was hoping I’d take her out for a run in the yard or to sit on the back porch. Instead, I filled her food bowl, closed the lid, and left.
I don’t remember how long I had Fiver. But there came a day when Mom said she wanted me to give her away. I didn’t understand. She was my rabbit. Why did I have to give her away? I don’t remember the explanation, but I was stuck in farm pet mode and thought I was doing what any pet owner would do which was say “I have a pet rabbit. Want to see?” And that was about it. And so it was that we gave Fiver, hutch and all, to a couple local girls that were dying for a pet rabbit. I never saw Fiver again, but I hope those two girls gave her a much better life than I did.
When I was 9 years old, my Dad took me duck hunting for the first time. I became enthralled and fascinated with all things duck hunting including duck dogs. I wanted a retriever in the worst way. I bugged, and begged my parents. I saved my muskrat and turtle trapping money and when the neighbors up the road had a large litter of Chesapeake Bay retriever puppies my parents relented and I welcomed Tina. Tina was the classic Chesapeake. A bit hard-headed, but good natured, and an absolute roustabout. I think she had all the good makings of a tremendous hunting dog. But, despite the life we gave our other dogs, I was still stuck on the farm and Tina’s presence was as far as I got with having a dog.
Many tales are told of a boy and his dog. Stories go about them being faithful companions to one another and risking life and limb for the other. But Tina was present and that seemed sufficient for me. Granted my parents took the reins a bit to train her but she was a bit of a trouble maker with chewing habits, and high energy. She needed to play, move, and work and I was expected to provide those opportunities because she was my dog. Like Fiver, I would make the occasional effort but didn’t really understand the assignment because the dogs at the farm were just “there”. Nobody did anything with them.
Tina loved me. When she was a puppy we played together. She was in my room all the time and I always made her supper and would sneak her the occasional scrap. She often looked at me with a look that, in hindsight, said “What are we going to do next friend? I’m all yours!” But aside from feeding her and occasionally taking her out in the yard, we didn’t do much.
Like Fiver, a day came when it was suggested we find Tina a new home. One where her owner will pay her the attention I didn’t. It still hadn’t sunk in that my behavior toward my pets was downright neglectful. Again, I didn’t understand why my dog had to go. But Dad found a man. A hunter who was familiar with gun dogs and whose own dog had just retired due to age. He met Tina and was willing to take her. He put the tailgate of his truck down and Tina wouldn’t jump in. She jumped into our truck all the time. I sat on the tailgate, and tapped it and she gladly jumped in. I got out, the tailgate and cap was shut, and the truck drove off with Tina frantically trying to escape and get back to me.
There was a moment when Tina happily did what I asked that I realized I betrayed her. Not just tricking her in to jumping on the tailgate, but from the moment I brought her home as a puppy. I had never been fair to her. I wanted a dog because I wanted to say I had a dog. Like my cousin’s farm, my friend Flip had taken one of Tina’s siblings. Flip also lived on a farm and his dog, Chessie, lived like Donald’s dogs. Outside on the farm grounds most of the time with little human attention. It wasn’t until I watched Tina frantically trying to get back to me that it finally dawned on me how a pet should be treated.
I’m certain that Tina went on to a better life and got to fulfill her destiny as a hunting retriever. But you might be wondering what happened to Boots. I get sad when I think about Boots and what I did to her.
Despite coming to love and trust me, Boots was still a bit distrusting of humans overall. She was not the cat you see in the middle of family events trying to be a part of things. More likely she watched from behind a couch or chair. When few people were around she would seek me out for affection.
Boots loved to sit on top of the water heater in the utility room. I’m sure it was a warm, cozy, secure spot. Cats aren’t known for clumsiness but one day she somehow slipped behind the water heater and was stuck in the narrow space in the corner behind it. She yowled for help. These days, even if she was a stray I wouldn’t have let her sit in there and be scared. But I was scared and clearly not a concerned enough pet owner to rush to my animal’s aid. I had the only hand that could fit back there and I, eventually, did reach in and boost her out but it took some convincing from my parents. For some reason, I thought she would try to bite me if I helped her. Looking back, I’m sure she wouldn’t have.
But that isn’t the heart breaker. You see, the whole time I had Boots, my brother made it his mission to chase or scare her at every opportunity. As a child, I don’t think he liked me much. My brother was not mean to animals then and is not now. He just tormented Boots to bother me. As such, he seldom missed the chance to torment her. Each time, I would leap to defend my cat.
That is until one day I’d like to completely erase from history. I don’t remember the circumstances, but my parents were out for the day. My brother and I always got along better when Mom and Dad weren’t home. The details fade over time, but somehow, some way, I decided to not only let him torment Boots but in an effort to make peace with my brother, I helped.
It makes me nearly cry to write this but all I remember is Boots hiding as far behind the head board of my parent’s bed as she could get and growling at us. Somehow I thought she’d understand and later I tried to make peace with her. But the trust I had worked so hard to develop was shattered. The love I had earned and enjoyed that day on the couch watching football was gone. Boots turned mostly feral again. She spent most of her time outside and would only come in and eat at night. She would never trust me, or any other human again. The last few months she would be out in the yard or on the porch much like a released feral. Then the day came and I never saw her again. She had given me love I didn’t deserve and I threw it away.
I didn’t realize how selfish and ignorant my actions were then. I didn’t realize how cruel I was being to all my pets. I took for granted their ability to love and be loved and treated them more live livestock on a farm than cherished family members. It was only years later when, as a family, we got our Golden Retriever that I realized the true enjoyment in life one can have with a pet.
Part of my ignorance came from youth. In my opinion, most kids shouldn’t have pets until they are old enough to truly care for, and appreciate them. More of my ignorance came from the way I idolized my cousin’s farm life and assumed that is how all things should be. All I know for sure is that I’ve been fortunate enough to have a lot of beings in my life that loved me and I did nothing but hurt them.
Older people often remark that they have no regrets in life. I wish I could say that but I have a lot of regrets. Most days I feel as though nearly every decision I have made has been wrong. I have close friends that know my life situation now and wonder how I do it. If you know what I’m talking about then you know. The fact is, I’ve already hurt more things that loved me than I ever intended to. I would give anything to undo that pain. If I could go back in time Boots would be the most loved cat ever. Fiver would have been a house rabbit, and Tina would have grown old in a duck blind with me. There are other choices I would make too that I won’t elaborate on. The fact of the matter is, I’ve already caused enough pain. I can’t and won’t ever hurt anything or anyone else that loves me. I simply couldn’t live with myself.
Bring it On 