Domestic
Creatures
by SuniD
I
want a puppy, a golden lab, to match me. She will be a bitch, as
protective of my house and home as I am. She will be named,
“Jedadiah,” because “Jed” is a good name for a dog, one
syllable, easily recognizable. Family and close friends will know to
call her “Edie,” when they come in the house, so that she won’t
bite them. My future husband will have to like dogs because I will
love her more than him.
I
will train Jed brilliantly, beginning at seven weeks, old enough to
be weaned but still amused by her tail. By the time I finish, Jed
will get the paper, my slippers, and cold cans of beer. She will sit,
shake, lie down, play dead, kennel up, belly up, dance and retrieve
lost sporting goods. She will strut proudly at my heel, her short
blonde hair highlighting my own strawberry locks. Her leashes will be
numerous, accessories for my many jackets and coats. My puppy will be
an extension of me.
Jed
will serve as my personal hot water bottle. She will let her self and
the cats out in the mornings so that I can sleep an extra five
minutes. Assuming the pair of toms that share a one-bedroom with me
now is still around when I get Jed. Right now, I have two orange
beasts, “Rascal,” and his son, “Ninja.” They work like alarm
clocks more than water bottles. All I’m good for with these boys is
food and litter. I have to let them outside daily or they pout. They
can stay out all night if they want, but if the food in their dish
doesn’t magically replenish itself at eight in the morning and
eight at night, I hear about it. Ninja roams the apartment moaning
like a banshee that’s just warming up. Rascal forcefully rubs
against my legs and feet, and throws himself into the book I’m
reading, or whatever else is in my lap. They are genuinely starved
for affection. Not enough hands to go around since I evicted my
live-in boyfriend. It’s funny; lack of petting was one of his
complaints, too. The way they act when someone moves to touch them is
embarrassing. Sometimes, I think they would have been better off
leaving with my ex.
I
wish he would have taken his angelfish, “The Old Mill.” It was
one of many things I gave during the relationship that got left
behind. It was a birthday present, to show how committed I was. Fish
require a big up-front investment. Aquariums are a huge
responsibility. Even deciding where to place one within the house is
critical. A pocket-size Feng Shui book from the impulse counter of a
gas station says that water features in the bedroom suggest financial
loss. But a bubbling aquarium in the southeast corner of a room
activates wealth energy. Maybe there’s not an electrical outlet in
that corner. This is why fish require thought. It’s a pain to move
a tank once the water is in and pumping. You also have to pre-commit,
adding the chemicals at least twenty-four hours before easing the
little guys into the drink.
Now,
I am the goddess of a five-gallon octagonal underwater world. I
decide who lives there and watch for when someone dies. Admittedly,
I’m not a very dedicated creator. I go through so many snails that
I stopped naming them. But twice a day, always at eight o’clock, I
watch “Milly” swim back and forth, a sideways star with long
front fins like feelers that keep him near the top of the tank. His
black and white markings and slow, deliberate pecking remind me of a
cow grazing. He is the epitome of patience.
“Sensei”
is my favorite aqua pet. The store labeled him a dojo loch, and each
clerk pronounced the name differently. He is sinewy like a miniature
eel. In my world, Sensei is the wise old sea serpent that rules the
depths. He is a finicky weather-fish that hides when the barometric
pressure drops. He turns over golf balls, digs through marbles and
dragon tears, flushing out every discarded crumb of food with his
whiskers. He sucks it up like a vacuum, sifting it through his gills.
Sensei and Milly are like night and day, but they, and a small
plecostomus, “Jorge,” who mostly keeps to himself, depend on me.
I change the filter regularly and rotate the cuisine, throwing in
algae wafers and blood worms from time to time. It feels good to be
needed.
The
cats, the angelfish, and the previous half dozen animals I’ve cared
for were either given to me or thrust upon me in some way. I came to
their rescue, supported them, and even nursed them back to life in
some instances. “Lucky Dog” was one that wandered into my life
begging. An example of reaping what you sew. He came to me a scrawny,
malnourished excuse for man’s best friend. He ate my hot dog, so I
fed him another. I let him stay in my motor home while I was parked
in a friend’s driveway, about a month. After daily doses of high
protein dog food, Lucky Dog transformed into a beautiful black
lab/pit-bull mix with a sleek coat, broad shoulders, and a wide jaw.
I wasn’t ready to take him on full-time. The license and vet bill
were out of my price range. I called the sheriff to pick Lucky up and
made the deputy promise to put him in a program for farm dogs. Today
pit-bull owners in my area are required to carry an extra insurance
policy, so I consider myself lucky to have let him go. I never had
the chance to train him properly, but he would have been a good boy.
He would have been loyal.
When
I get my puppy, I will already have a house, maybe the cats, and
probably the fish. Jed and I will have to stick together, being the
only girls in the family. She will lie next to me, probably chewing
on something, while I sunbathe in my backyard. She will dig by me
while I plant my spring garden. Chasing rodents away from our meager
crop will be a game. And she will bring home hasenpfeffer trophies. I
will have the time, space, and security she needs. In return, Jed
will cuddle with me. Most animals are easy come, easy go. Snails and
fish die, cats have claws and can fend for themselves if it’s worth
the effort, but a puppy is a lifetime. If one of us should leave or
die, the other will live with incurable loneliness.
