Any day now, I am expecting to receive a very important package in the mail from my parents. It will arrive by special delivery in a box with little round air holes poked in the top and it will probably be squeaking or quacking or howling. I know it is coming soon because they promised that when I had children of my own, which I now do, they would send it. If you know my parents, then you are aware that it would be highly out of character for them not to make good on one of their promises. Especially when it is a personal vendetta of sorts, a kind of karmic payback for the grief that I inadvertently caused them during my own childhood. You see, I had a bit of an obsession with bringing home and raising an extremely diverse variety of sweet, lovable, little creatures. And by raising, I mean that, like most children, I enjoyed petting and loving them regularly while my parents were left to do the lion's share of the work.
I have to be honest though. I am not 100% responsible for the penchant that I developed for cute little fuzzy furballs. Whether they realize it or not, my parents are partially to blame. I mean we were regular viewers of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom with Marlin Perkins. Every week, we tuned in to see if Jim would actually be able to survive while Marlin told us all about it from a safe distance. My Dad was also a huge fan of NOVA and its myriad of animal documentaries. My mom and I did not share in his fascination with the brutal reality of the great outdoors. We preferred that our antelopes did not end up headless at the hands paws of a pride of lions. We also preferred that our little mice remained on the outside of some big, fat, slithery snake's bulging belly. While we are perfectly aware that it is the circle of life and all, we just don't like to observe it on such an extremely up close and personal level. In other words, seeing deep inside the nostril of a rare venomous toad as he is about to ingest some creepy, crawly insect just wasn't our thing.
You rarely ever come across any kind of truth in disclosure when perusing children's literature, instead, it's all sweet, snuggly, sugarcubes and pretty, prancing ponies. I mean I suppose most kids might be prone to avoid more realistic titles lurking on the library shelf. Who wants to read Hunter the Happy Old Horse that Died, Charlie the Cuddly Kitten that Croaked, or Rover the Rowdy Rottweiler that Got Run Over? Which brings me back to the original problem. Animal related kid lit is rarely based in reality. My furry friend fever began with a picture book called The Little Lamb. (Careful parents, this book is still in print. Avoid it like the plague, unless you plan to become the proud owner of your own little lamb in the next six months.) In the story, the neighbor lady gives this little girl named Emmy a lamb. The poor mama lamb had twins and doesn't have enough milk for both baby sheep. Emmy is asked to care for the little lamb until he is big enough to return to the flock. Emmy names her new fuzzy little pal Timothy. I loved this book so very much that my parents eventually bought me The Little Duck as well. Huge child rearing mistake! We all know that unlike in this lovely little story, no one will welcome your little animal buddy back into the flock or herd or gaggle or whatever once your child has lost interest in his fluffy little companion.
Besides, watching shows like Wild America with Marty Stouffer and reading about the awesome experiences of other pint-sized pet owners, my mother engaged in an even worse bit of parenting peril. Next to our house, on the other side of an expansive field that was planted with either hog corn or soy beans, was a rarely traveled road made of gravel and dirt. My mom used to take me for walks on this road when I was small. I now know that the purpose of this stroll had little to do with visiting animals in the neighborhood. It was to free her from the confines of the house for an hour and to wear me out so that I would totally pass out when nap time finally rolled around giving her a few precious moments of solitude. At the time however, I was unaware of her devious ulterior mommy motives. All I knew was that at least once a week, we paid a little visit to the goats that lived along that dusty old back road. I have no idea why, but at the end of their driveway, the owners of the property behind us kept a little goat on a rope with his very own little
Thus began my vigorous campaign to acquire a new pet of my own. I knew a goat was probably out of the question, but for years, I toiled in order to wear my parents down. Being born into a home that already owned three dogs did not help my cause one bit. In the third grade, one of our teachers used to bring in her pet rabbit to the classroom on a weekly basis. He was a lop-eared little guy that actually lived with her inside her house. To my surprise, I discovered that bunnies could be trained to use a litter box. When I found this out, I started feverishly campaigning for my own indoor bunny. For weeks on end, I asked, discussed, whined, cried, begged, pleaded, and papered the walls of the house with hand-colored promotional flyers, until one weekend, my parents finally cracked. On that particular Saturday morning in early spring, my mom and dad came home and mysteriously summoned me to the garage. I stood there staring at them blankely wondering why they had requested my presence in the garage of all places. They looked rather excited about something but I had no idea what it was. After a bit of over obvious gesturing on the part of my mother, I noticed something odd that stood out sharply against the shiny, quilted background of her fashionable rust-colored overcoat. Peeking out of the corner of her right pocket was one teeny-tiny, white bunny ear. This ear belonged to Buffy, my new pet rabbit.
I was over the moon. All of my nine-year old dreams had finally come true. I couldn't wait to give her a tour of my room and pick out a place for her to poop. Then my parents broke the news that unfortunately, she was actually a he that would be spending his days outside in a roomy rabbit cage under our deck. Woah...this is not what I signed on for during my initial proposal. Problem 1...Why would you bring me a boy bunny when I specifically asked for a girl? Turns out lady bunnies can be a wee bit witchy making boy bunnies the friendlier choice. In reality, I think my parents were afraid that they would accidentally bring home one of those "fast" lady bunnies and end up with a whole warren of rabbits. Problem 2...He'll freeze outside! In order to keep him cozy and warm, I spent hours crafting little pieces of scrap lumber into a small wooden hut that fit inside the corner his cage. This snuggly inner enclosure would later prove to be problematic but at the time creating his comfortable bunny quarters was my only concern.
Buffy came with a tiny bunny harness. If you put pet rabbits on a little leash, you were supposed to be able to take them out of their cage for a little hop once in a while. This sounds great in theory but in reality I think it was simply part of the bunny breeders sales pitch to sell some extra merchandise to my parents. It worked just fine when he was a sweet little baby bunny, but Buffy grew up to be a big, fat, freakishly-strong, grown-up rabbit. As an adult rabbit, Buffy developed a set of razor sharp rear toenails that were capable of slicing your arms to ribbons with one wayward boot of his little bunny foot. The only luck involved when dealing with this dangerous appendage was walking away with your hand intact. Trying to handle him without receiving a rabbit roundhouse of rage was nearly impossible. Forget placing a harness on him to go for a bounce around the yard, removing him from the confines of his little wooden house inside the tight quarters of the wire cage was asking to lose a finger. The salesperson had told my parents that as long as you held him all the time when he was a little ball of fluff, he would grow up to be a friendly adult rabbit. This was somewhat true. As long as you kept him fed with fresh water, rabbit pellets and a regular supply of carrots and dandelions leaves, he was a happy little guy. Attempt to remove him from his cozy little cage and you'd risk losing a limb.
Occasionally, I would successfully bust him out if his cage with only a minor bit of bloodshed. I made a little wooden pen out of some boards to let him stretch his bunny body and get some exercise. Unfortunately, the smell of fresh blood, despite the fact that it happened to be mine, and the lure of a big fat feast of domesticated hossenfeffer drew every predatory bird in the county to the skies over my backyard. Buffy did not like being dived on by a flailing, screaming child one bit, even if it was a desperate life-saving maneuver to keep him from being snatched up by a hungry hawk. Needless to say, my original plans for this beautiful baby bunny did not come to pass. Buffy lived the life of a rabbit recluse in his outdoor cage. I think he was actually more of a loner bunny who preferred not being squeezed and stroked and practically strangled by over-exuberant, loving, little arms. Over time, our limited interactions slowly became centered exclusively around providing a week's supply of bunny nourishment, a few bunny snacks, and shoveling the mountainous pile of bunny poop pellets that accumulated under his big, fat, bunny bottom. Truth be told, after a while my parents ended up caring for Buffy on a much more regular basis than me. Who didn't see that one coming?
Despite already owning a bunny, by the fifth grade, I had set my sights on a new and exciting animal ownership goal. In order to make this dream a reality, I struck a deal with one of my more agriculturally inclined classmates. His family owned a local farm and the spring lambs had just been born. Luckily, I still had a bit of leftover Christmas cash lying around, patiently waiting to be spent. I have no idea what the going rate for a sheep was back then, but for the paltry sum of twenty-five smackers, I could get my hands on my very own sheep. The kid and I set up the sheep & moo-la exchange point. Now all I had to do was get the parental units to sign off on this precious little purchase. I was already planning to shear him in order to spin my own wool. My mom was an avid fan of crocheting, so I thought that she might be on board with my plan. Perhaps the fact that my mom is extremely allergic to wool is what caused such a vehement and resounding no from them. More likely it was due to the fact that they were now primarily responsible for the majority of Buffy the Bunny's care. Whatever the reason, the deal was a no go.
When my great aunt and uncle heard that the sheep sale had gone sour, they stepped in to broker a new deal on my behalf. They owned a farm in Ohio and they specialized in raising pigs and hogs of all kinds. In lieu of the lovely little lamby, they offered to provide me with a precious pink piglet of my very own. It was no little lamb, but I suppose I could come around to snuggling up to a little swine if it was my only option. Unfortunately, for some odd reason, my mom and dad vetoed this offer as well. I guess my unreliable nature related to rabbit raising had forever ruined my chances of acquiring any new pet pals. Despite the botched bunny deal, for years, I continued to campaign, undeterred.
Eventually, it was my parents who wore me down, with their consistent, united refusals to provide me with any new opportunities for pet ownership. I had given up on all other endeavors except for acquiring a single, white, domesticated duck. This desire could be traced back to that previously mentioned piece of pet purchasing propaganda called The Little Duck. In the book, this little boy goes out fishing and unexpectedly finds an abandoned duck egg lying in the grass next to a pond. He carefully carries it home to where his family just happens to have a warm, toasty incubator waiting around for just such an occasion. He patiently waits for it to hatch. When it finally does, I believe he names it Henry and he has to teach it how to swim and to do all the ducky things that little quackers need to know. Thus began my desire for obtaining a downy little duckling of my own. Using the same tactics as the bunny buy, I was finally able to convince my dad to purchase me my very own duck. To my surprise, he actually came home from the local feed store with a peeping package of four because birds are supposed to fare better in a small group. Either that or my parents were suckered by another salesman, but since this happened way before the Internet, you can't blame them if they were. I couldn't wait to see my four fabulous, fuzzy, yellow ducklings. I opened the box and realized that while these birds met the definition of a duck as in they had feathers, webbed feet, yellow beaks, and they went quack quack, they were not exactly the particular species of duck that I had requested.
These were mallards. Who ever heard of anyone raising a mallard? Smart man, my Pa. Domesticated white ducks were forever friends which is exactly what I had hoped to receive. On the other end of the spectrum, mallards are free spirits who migrate to warmer locations every fall. If a kid is lucky, they will come back every year. If parents are lucky, they won't. This is why the mallards were such an easy sell and taking on four birds was no problem. It was a good thing that we had a few spare ducklings as there were some issues related to establishing pecking order. Unfortunately, that is not just an expression in the duck world. You may not know it but baby birdies can be terrible bullies. Because they are such relentless little creatures, there were several replacement bird purchases made, but in the end, we raised a flock of three fine, feathery fellows. Our feisty mutt, Lady,
It was the perfect solution for all parties involved. I got a few new pets that I was intensely interested in raising for a while. The ducks were well-cared for so that they could become all fat and sassy in preparation for their long journey. Our garden got a little extra fertilization. Our dog had a few creatures that she was actually encouraged to chase around. The ducks learned how to fly and my parents were not left holding the bag when my original excitement over my new peeping pals finally petered out. Just when it looked as though all mallard care might fall into their laps, the feathery little fellows flew away for the winter. Looking for the perfect pet? I highly recommend the mallard. In fact, when we finally receive that highly anticipated shipment of parental payback from my mom and dad, I hope their choice is a merciful one, and I end up with a quacking box of mallards on my doorstep.
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