ANIMALS I’VE KNOWN AND LOVED

Chapter 1

When I was a very young child in Winthrop, Massachusetts, my family owned a dog named Ginger. Someone took a picture of her and me sharing popcorn on the front porch hammock. I wish I had that photo, but, like so many memories, if it wasn’t lost, it has probably faded. I was just a toddler then. I never knew a time in my childhood when I wasn’t around animals. More than being a part of the family--they were a part of my life. There’s a gentleness about our pets when found in people, that trait is lauded as a purity of heart.

My mother told me that I used to “help out” after supper by letting the dog lick the plates. However, I thought the dog did such a good job, I put them away in the low cupboard where they belonged. Mom used to have to tilt the plates to see if they were dish washed or “licked clean.” I guess even back then I thought animals should have purpose.

The first dog I can consciously remember was Heather, a brown mongrel dam that prolifically supplied us with puppies each year. To me that was her purpose in life--to supply myself and four brothers some fun once in awhile. I can remember our getting the squirming brood all excited and running into the living room, throwing ourselves on the floor, covering our heads with our arms, while the pups in pursuit would squeak, chew and claw trying to bet at us. My mom always found homes for all the pups despite our protests--but we knew that we’d have another brood of playmates in time.

Heather and me (around 5 or 6 years old)

...CAN’T TEACH A DOG BUDDHIST PHILOSOPHY:

I’ll often see a groundhog dead on the highway looking like a child’s forlorn overstuffed toy that may have been tossed in a self destructive tantrum. It makes me wonder when the child asks, "What was that?" if parents ever say, “It’s only a toy” as their family van speeds by.

I like groundhogs, woodchucks, Eastern marmots… whatever you’d call them. One summer I found a half grown one with a wound which would prove to be fatal. Having no birds in the outer coop at that time, I kept it there in hopes to rehabilitate it, [which I knew was illegal, but my heart wins out over the law more than once in a while] but when his wound got infected, and the animal was going to die a slow and painful death, I had Tom destroy it and buried it down by the creek. I cried over that little beast, whereas one of my chickens, 8 years old, when it got torn up and killed by raccoons, I buried it without a whimper. There is something more of a loss to me when a mammal dies.

A few years ago another young groundhog was trying to stay alive and away from the snapping jaws of my mild mannered basset-beagle who had turned feral for the chase. It was somehow dodging the dog when I realized Polly had something cornered, and I had unthinkingly brought Bear up to the path near this action, forgetting that he would want to join in. Polly was trying to get a hold on this cagy critter’s body without getting bitten back. When I realized what was going on, I think I got a the one leash I had with me around Polly, and managed to drag her away while Bear started joining in on the fun and games. I then tethered Polly, and having only one leash, carried Bear back to the house. He must have still been a pup for me to have had the strength. I didn’t stop to see if Tom was home, just firmly announced, “DON’T let him out!!” and with no further explanation ran back to where Polly was still leashed, and disillusioned, with the groundhog safely out of sight, and dragged her home. I didn’t take the chance of letting Polly loose, and perhaps finding the frightened little creature again.

Today the fate of another young groundhog wasn’t as lucky. This time an older and wiser Bear was first to find this game (…literally--whatever way you want to use the game reference--as it was a critter to kill, and a whole bunch of fun in doing it). Polly realized what was going on and took off to help with the kill. I ran up to the spot yelling, “NO! NO!” and tried defending the poor little fellow with my ski poles which are convenient for many uses besides ski poles and walking sticks, but they didn’t even feel blows against their backs, nor was the basket or bale sufficient to hook the dog to drag him from his or her prey. I watched in horror as they each got a turn to grab the quarry and shake it to death. There was no point in trying to save it anymore. The dogs had had their way, and were so full of adrenalin and excitement that if I had tried, it would be as if I were taking red meat from two wolves.

Discouraged and disillusioned about my dogs I slunk back towards the house on the trail through the wood, and when Bear caught up to me, he had blood on his nose, a merry proud gleam in his eye, and the dead groundhog in his mouth, and he was “walking proud.” He never seemed so pleased with himself, though I had thought he was as proud as could be when just carrying a stick. No, this was different. This was something he never had done in his 4 years of life. He had killed his own food, and he had felt that sudden feeling one gets, no matter what domestic animal, when they hunt and kill through that innate skill which surfaces and lets them know how to do that which they’ve never done before. The instinct was stronger than my will over these dogs. They do not hear, nor do they obey …nor do they care …not about anything but this fantastic need to kill the wild animal.

“That’s your LUNCH!!” I announced to Bear when we got as far as the back yard. He had dropped it a few times along the path, and once I made him pick it up again… he was more than willing. Another time he had dropped it, and when I picked it up by the tail and dropped it below the path, he retrieved it.

When I went down to the coop to set up the chicken’s tray of food for the day, I suddenly heard a commotion. Polly and Bear were fighting over their spoils. I didn’t want them to kill each other, thinking that now in their adrenalin filled state this was possible, and I called to Bear. He came to me, trying to win back my affection. He was no longer interested in the dead animal. This wasn’t lunch to him, but a game that was over. Polly knew otherwise. She’s still outside, probably eating the woodchuck. She’ll probably "upchuck the woodchuck" on the living room carpet later.

I just don’t care. I’m sad and angry, though I shouldn’t be. A dog isn’t a vegetarian or a Buddhist. I should expect nothing more than their being what they basically are, and I should try and understand the wonderful exhilaration they must have felt… especially bear, as Polly has killed before: rabbits and chipmunks …and will kill again. But she’s meek and mild at home. Innocent and sweet. Who were those feral beasts that took over their bodies for a short while? Look at your dog. Look at your cat. They are just a hairbreadth away from the wolf and the bobcat!

Cranberry Jo