When our beloved Cocker Spaniel, Devon, died of cancer five years ago I vowed that we would not add another dog to our existing menagerie of kids and cats. I argued that we (I) had finally emerged from poopy diapers and afternoon naps and did not need/want another creature that required a heaping amount of TLC and constant companionship. I love going away for weekends, spending long days at museums and cultural gatherings, eating at real restaurants, and spontaneity. This is all possible with four young kids, and I was not prepared to concede any of my flexibility to a four-legged friend, particularly if there was choice around the matter.
So, of course, we got a dog.
He was an athletic, crazy Springer Spaniel named Huck, who couldn’t stand being outside by himself. He chewed large holes in every pair of my Wigwam socks, scratched our good sofa trying to recover his ball, ate the vintage Pendleton blanket I picked up in Albuquerque and, well, acted like a dog. The kids were off at school, Husband was at work and travelling, and I was (primarily) working from home. With the dog.
After half a year of zero responsibility on anyone’s part I announced that if the dog didn’t go, I would (and I meant it).
Huck now lives across the village with his new ‘forever family’ – his half-sister Winnie and a forester and his wife – on a Christmas tree farm with miles to run and run. There’s no doubt in my mind that he traded up.
When we banished Huck I vowed that we would not add another animal to our existing menagerie of kids and cats. I argued that we (I) had finally emerged into a world of increasingly independent children who could make their own lunches look after their basic needs and did not need/want another creature that required any amount of TLC and companionship. I don’t love housework and picking up after others and I want to spend my precious, finite time on activities and work that really matters. This is all possible with four older kids, and I was not prepared to concede any of my flexibility to any more animals friends, particularly if there was choice around the matter.
So, of course, we got a pair of guinea pigs.
My youngest, a regular animal-mad Dr. Doolittle, begged for guineas for the past two years. For his eighth birthday Husband found a ‘gently used’ pair and he and C. brought them home yesterday. No doubt the human parents of Ricky and Bobby let out a great “Whoop!” when our car pulled out of their driveway, drunk with their new-found freedom from nagging and sweeping.
I guess I passively collaborated when I re-built the play structure with progressively smaller kid, cat and guinea pig doors. And now, according to Husband, I am supposed to use my carpentry skills to construct an elaborate two-level cage with ramp. Bauhaus or timber frame modern? I ask.
Because, hey, I have absolutely nothing else to do with my time.