So, why do I keep these furballs around? Why does anyone? Pets are messy. They stink. Some of them toot too much. My mom has a cat who's not right and who requires antidepressants to quell his habit of methodically stripping the fur from his arms and belly.
He's not right. We call this "Sleeping with the Enemy." Because he's crazy. As in, he'll rip your eyes out if you blink too loudly. But we love him anyway.
We love all of them.
These are my current purveyors of hair balls.
They're pretty naughty, and they barf a lot. But darned if they don't keep my toes warm at night and my smile a little warmer during the day.
And they're pretty to look at too.
Sometimes, I hear people call their pets their "fur babies." But really, we all know that pets aren't our children. They're better in some ways. They don't backtalk. They don't cause stretch marks, and they don't require midnight feedings (most of the time--the not right one did, but again, he's not right). They expect nothing but love. Their preschool teachers won't expect hand-sculpted cheese pumpkins for Halloween parties, and tuition for obedience school just doesn't quite compare to private school tuition.
They love us unconditionally--even when we're ugly, even when we're hateful, even when we've said things we shouldn't. They don't care about our salary or whether our houses are big or small. There's a homeless man that I see downtown nearly every day with his Jack Russell. That tiny terrier thinks that his owner is just as fine and fancy as any Wall Street banker. They listen without judgment. They let us use their fur as tissue to dry our tears, and they're the first ones we tell every secret. My Katty was the first one to know I was going to have a baby, and she dried my tears when I thought I had failed the bar exam.
They make the best pillows.
They are our confidants. Our comfort in the storms (though sometimes we're their comfort in these crazy Oklahoma storms). They get our jokes like no one else--even the really bad ones. They bring out the silly in us. They are our best friends.
She was old and fat, and she preferred Hubsie's laundry to her litter box any day.
And, she didn't like him much. But she still brought out the silly.
Her brother was far more dignified and much nicer.
Sir Windsor was the perfect knight.
And, he knew how to waste away in Margaritaville.
So, we clean our carpets. We lint roll our winter coats. We let them beg from our plates, and we share our bacon sandwiches.
And, we mourn them when they pass. They're not our children. They're our true friends. And, we miss them. That's the thing with pets. They're our best friends. Our true confidants. Our bringers of smiles. In the best of times, we can pretend that they'll never leave us. But we know that they will. And, when they go, they leave us with memories of slobbers, snarfles, and snores. Of nighttime snuggles, stinky breath, and squirrel chases.
We miss this big lug. He was the best. The best of the best.
But, darned if these memories don't make me smile just a little bit.
Because, he was a friend. A true friend. I'm happier for having known him. He was stubborn. He smelled--particularly after a tangle with skunks. He walked me rather than the other way around. And, even though I miss him (and I know a couple of others who do too), I think we know that we're better for having played his Boxer games, smelled his Boxer breath, bounced his Boxer bounce, and walked his Boxer walk.
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