Animals are not my friends. I don't like to pet dogs on the street, coo at kittens or watch birds. Fish make me nervous. I am constantly afraid that they will somehow find their way into my mouth and I will inadvertently swallow them live. The idea of a fish swimming around my intestines is not pleasant to say the least. I kill all bugs on contact, swat at pigeons, and sneak up on squirrels before screaming boo. My cold stone like heart has no room for puppies and ponies and all things cute and cuddly.
Many people regard this distaste for all things furry to be an aberration from the human condition of swooning over anything on four legs with a wet nose. But maybe the masses are wrong. Maybe the need to domesticate animals, cut off their testicles (or take out their uterus'), collar/leash/brand/otherwise mark them, and give them ridiculous human like names is the abnormal impulse.
As children we all kill our fish, sit on our hamsters, hang our cats (you guys did that too, right?). First we covet the life we are entrusted with, then we see how much pain we can inflict before snuffing it out. We get the animals we begged for on birthdays, Christmas and Kwanzaa only to experiment on them, learning the limits of life and death. As we get older and society's standards of ethics and decency are imposed on us, we lose this desire to hurt, kill, and otherwise mutilate un-housebroken beings. But are we overcompensating by taking them into our homes and letting them eat off our plates? I would say yes, yes we are.
Oh I have had animals over the years. I wasn't always in touch with my inner hardheartedness. There were fish and gerbils, hamsters and guinea pigs, cats and dogs. I killed, or wanted to kill, just about every one of those (I never wanted to kill my dogs, but I have a feeling that I may have inadvertently contributed to their deaths - who knew you couldn't feed them chocolate and grilled cheese). This pattern of pet acquisition and death has not foreshadowed a life as a serial killer; it has however made it hard for me to watch people kiss their dogs.
Checker's death is the only one that still weighs heavily on my already condemned soul. He was Memma's, my older sister. A guinea pig for all intents and purposes, but also her best and closest friend. He had short white hair with brown square patches, much like a checker board. Memma loved him so. He was her tenth birthday gift (my parents really enjoyed giving live gifts), and he was instantly the best pet she had ever had. She would let him loose in her room and then cry for hours when she couldn't find him (he was always found days later under her bed). She would brush his little disgusting hair with my barbie brush, then place the brush back in my room so I didn't know. Luckily for her Barbie and checkers had the same color hair so I never noticed, if I had it would have been a dark day for both Memma and Checkers.
Memma held photo shoots for checkers. Arranging all her many stuffed animals at the edge of her bed, she would place Checkers in the middle and snap away with her Polaroid camera-a relic from her 9th birthday. When the pictures developed after a few quick shakes and blows (that's what she said, sorry I couldn't resist) you wouldn't notice the guinea pig at first. You would simply think it was an elaborately staged stuffed animal photo shoot. But after staring at the picture for a moment or two (not that anyone ever gives that sort of picture a second look), you would see those beady little eyes staring back at you and realize this child was going to grow up and become an animal pornographer or a financial analyst (same thing really).
One day Memma was playing with a friend in our backyard. Up in my room I also had a friend playing with me. We played Barbie and lamppost boyfriend (a fun game where we took turns slow dancing with a tall floor lamp as though he were a boy) while the afternoon sun shined through my open window.
"Mephie." I heard my name being called. "Mephie come to the window."
Recognizing my sister's voice and being all too desperate for her attention and approval I abandoned sweet lamppost boyfriend and ran to the window.
"What's up Memma, you are so cool, is there anything I can do for you?"
"I really want to play with Checker's, can you toss him down here?" She smiled as she asked.
Let's just stop and consider this for a minute. My ten-year-old sister, my living idol, had just asked me to "toss" her beloved guinea pig out my bedroom window (which mind you was on the second floor of our house), so she might play with him. I'm not even sure how one plays with a guinea pig. They do not do anything (unless you consider sitting still while you take pictures to be something). Though I was only eight and not an animal lover, something inside of my told me this was wrong. Memma persisted.
"Mephie, I promise I'll catch him." She cajoled. "Pleaseeeeeeeee."
I didn't need a lot of convincing. I ran across the hall to her room, grabbed the thing out of its tank-like cage and went to my window. My friend who had silently started slow dancing with lamppost boyfriend now took notice.
"Meph, don't do that, its a badddd idea."
My friend was a pussy.
Memma held up her hands and nodded encouragingly. Leaning as far out of my window as my chubby stomach would allow, I tossed Checkers with all my might.
He flew threw the air, gloriously ascending in a high arch. Memma and my eyes were glued to the flying pig. We were transfixed by this moment of sisterly love and guinea pig devotion. It was not to last. I guess we thought maybe he would glide for a while, but it turned out guinea pigs are not natural gliders. The guinea pig began to descend, hurtling towards the Earth. Memma being the maternal pet owner quickly covered her eyes and head with her arms. Guess who didn't catch Checkers.
Checkers landed (barely missing our massive deck and built in grill) on the grass just feet in front of Memma. She ran to him.
"Mephie, what did you do!!!!!!!" Memma was now cradling the limp guinea pig in her arms, tears streaming down her face.
"You told me to throw him." I said defensively.
"I didn't think you would actually do it. You are such an idiot." Because when someone begs you to throw a guinea pig out the window you are supposed to know they don't mean it?
Checkers didn't die from the fall/fly. Memma nursed him back to health with guinea pig food and photo shoots. I got grounded for two weeks and wasn't allowed to see lamppost boyfriend. Checkers was never the same. About two months later we found out he was a she when she birthed three baby guinea pigs. Apparently her brother in the pet store cage had taken some liberties with her. Within three days of the babies' birth, Checkers ate all three. This is when I knew I never wanted another pet again.
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