Feed Me Seymour

I was raised with horses Shiloh, Cody, Vicky, Cash, Wrangler, Dancer, and others... whose names I can't recall. Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail our three adorable rabbits were a highlight in my pet memories. Our first dog Ben, an English Black Labrador, a rescue dog via my aunt Dorothy, patiently dealt with three children who'd never been allowed an "indoor pet". We would bury our faces into him. He would let our kittens sleep on his back. He would let three children cry into his fur. Ben was our clock tower, holding tall and strong for us. Ben allowed tugging, teasing, Madonna True Blue lyrics sung into his ears. We loved him best we could. Coming home from Amanda's choir performances, we were allowed a not-so-common treat, an ice cream cone from Coney Island Boardwalk in Conifer, Colorado. Coney Island is a kid's dream restaurant delight, a GIANT hot dog building, the dog is splattered with green relish and yellow mustard. Patrons stand in line for dogs and soft-serve ice cream that towers atop a sugar cone. I could never finish my ice cream cone on those drives back from choir concerts; nor did I want to. As we stepped out of the car Ben and I knew the deal; I would eat only one bite of the cone and lovingly hand him the rest.

Then came Cassie our Blue Heeler who chased after our neighbor that jogged on dirt roads. We ended up giving Cassie to a friend who had more acres to roam, so the dog would feel at home. Next was Lucas our Springer Spaniel who my brother took care of during the divorce. Nate to this day still claims Lucas died of a broken heart. There was my fish Draino from the Parker County Fair. The cattle used for team roping, that my sister would name. She held protests in the name of PETA for those cattle during rodeo sessions in our own backyard. If I recall correctly there were a few goats at one point eating our Aspen trees. But the neighbor's buffalo standing in our yard topped any goat memory. I wanted to run outside, look that buffalo in the eye; pet him, and ride on his back. As my hand grabbed the door handle my father said no. It broke my spirit to let go.

Our barn cats would range in number from six to sixteen. Then the number would drop off again, due to numerous factors. One factor we didn't like to admit was the coyotes in the area. Fluffy my sweet barn cat with all-white puffy fur was unique, I wasn't that fond of cats, although my sister cherished them. Fluffy was different. I wasn't scared of her clawing out my eyes. My mom made a pie one day and had it out on the counter cooling down. The screen door was left open and Fluffy snuck in, teased by the smell of baked goods that lured her smartly into the kitchen. My mother screeched with disgust finding Fluffy, one white paw now red, having sunk past the sugared crust into the berry filling; while taking bites of the pie. I grinned proudly at the dinner table scooping a large spoonful of the pie into my mouth. My mother and siblings sat horrified as my father and I unabashedly ate the remains. A woman stopped at the house, asking my mother where she got the white cat. My mother protectively explained that Fluffy was born in our barn just like the rest. That we fed Fluffy boxed milk mix and watched her grow up in front of our eyes. The woman claimed the cat was hers. I recall this being nonsense as I raised the cat, the only cat I'd ever cared for. The next week Fluffy was nowhere to be found. I've never bonded with a cat since. The nerve of that woman. Maybe she was lonely. I hope she fed Fluffy pie.

After college, I would pet sit. That isn't a real job my father would make sure to tell me. He liked to remind me that I wasn't using that degree he paid for. He paid one-third, my mother paid some, I worked while in school and I paid the government loan back. I was catering after graduation and pet sitting on the side. I watched all sorts of dogs Newfoundland, Labradors, Mastiffs, German Shorthaired Pointers oh boy those dogs could run! My last gig was two bulldogs. Their owners were slobs. They left on vacation and the apartment was a mess, half-eaten pizza on the table, a sink filled with dishes, even the counters filled with dirty dishes too. Their drugs were left out on the coffee table. Their only bed was unmade and still held used sheets. I came to the home to take the dogs on a walk and the key didn't work. I started to panic, this was a nightmare!!! May All Your Dreams Come True. I used to enjoy posting this on friends' Facebook pages (before Instagram and Tik Tok were invented... before the baby boomers took over Facebook). Even my nightmares? My witty birthday brother wrote back. I had a few nightmares that I would double book a dog sitting appointment and forget; leaving a dog locked up for days alone. I would jump out of bed praising real life, it was only a dream.

I tried the bulldog's key again and it still didn't work. I had to call a locksmith and pay the three hundred dollar charge upfront. He explained that this happens all the time; especially with people who don't vacation often and forget they changed the locks. He gave me a receipt with his number circled, telling me the owners could call him to verify. When they arrived home they acted like I changed the locks, in some scheme to con them out of money. I laughed at first and then realized they were serious. I explained that I was worried about their bulldogs who had been locked inside since they left for the airport. That I was on time to let them outside to relieve themselves and go for a walk. That I was irritated that the key wasn't working and that the dogs had to wait an extra hour while a locksmith drove to the house. That I expected to have to clean up feces once the lock was removed, understanding that the dogs couldn't hold it any longer. That I was compassionate toward their animals this whole time. The wife smirked and still didn't believe me. Some dogs owners....geez. I told her to call the locksmith and promptly asked for my check.

The German Shorthaired Pointers were beautiful dogs. I would run with them in the parks. I was running full speed and they were at a soft jog. Their owners would leave for months at a time and I would care for those Pointers as my own. Maverick the male Pointer was getting older in age. He slipped one night on the wooden slick stairs. He fell down three of the stairs and I cried for over an hour holding him. It was the second worse animal sighting of my life. The first was my step sisters horse being put down. The vet had the horse stand up and then injected him. The horse shook and fell violently towards death. The horse was sitting prior. I still don't understand why the vet did that. When the Germain Shorthaired Pointers owners would come home, they would find apple muffins made for them, a clean kitchen, happy dogs freshly walked and watered. The bulldog's family came home to the house exactly as they left it. Almost...I put a Tupperware over the drugs so the dogs wouldn't get to them. I also left ice cubes in the dog's water bowl to keep it cool.

Do you have pets? That's a great conversation starter. Unfortunately, my reply is no. My plant is fake. Wow, not a conversation starter at all. But alas, that's my pet. A fake plant with an inside-out Amazon package stuff on top to look like a ghost. I've had loads of pets. I loved having pets. I know what it takes to care for pets properly. But currently, I have a fake plant and that's ok.