“But Ma, he followed me home.”
I looked up at my mother, my eyes, and voice pleading, already knowing in my eight-year-old bones she wasn’t buying it. Her lips pressed into a thin line; she watched the stray mutt lope over to our dog’s food dish. About the size of a miniature pony, the brown dog filled our tiny kitchen. Wolfing down the chow, his prominent ribs heaved as he gobbled the kibble, ignoring the yapping and growling from Frankie, our dachshund. The stray smelled terribly; his greasy coat mottled with bald patches. For me, it was love at first sight. The inevitable broken heart followed, as Ma had no choice but to coax the unwilling guest down three narrow flights of stairs back out to the street.
That stray was one of many I enticed home. Most dogs came along willingly. I always knew it wasn’t possible to keep them, but with each rescue, I continued to hope. If nothing else, at least the poor creatures got one square meal. Those dogs reluctant to follow me I fed with the lunch I was meant to eat. As expected, cats resisted my Good Samaritan attempts to bring them home. Instead, my allowance went toward the cans of cat food I left in the vacant lot near my apartment building. Seeing the scraggly, bone-thin felines swarm toward these meals brought more joy than anything else I could’ve spent my money on.
Raised in a family of animal lovers, my affection for all creatures great and small was destined. My first “babysitter,” a boxer puppy, sat outside my playpen while my mother did housework. The dog entertained me until both he and I were about a year old, and Bruno simply outgrew our small, three-room Brooklyn apartment and was sent to friends whose house included yard space. Soon after, my mother brought home the more suitably sized Frankie. My childhood included dogs, cats, fish, turtles, a guinea pig, and the hamsters my mother finally drew the line at.
To earn one of his Boy Scout badges when he was 11, my brother chose animal care and got Ma’s permission to buy two hamsters. Promising her they would be the same sex, he instead came home with a male and female. To our delight, they almost immediately got to procreating. Suspecting our parents wouldn’t share our joy, we bought another cage and hid the brood in my brother’s room until my mother got wise and brought them all back to the pet store, including Mr. and Mrs.
My pets were never just pets. Whenever I felt lonely, they offered companionship. They served as my muses, subjects I delighted in drawing and writing about. As I got older, I learned responsibility as I fed, walked, groomed and cleaned cages. I turned to them for comfort during my parents’ arguments. When my pets died, I mourned them no less than any other family member.
When I moved to my own apartment in my early 20s, I had little money to furnish it, but didn’t care. Instead, one of my first priorities was acquiring a pet to truly make my new place a home. I adopted the gray kitten one of my coworkers found abandoned in a park. Jaguar and I lived together until he crossed the Rainbow Bridge at 18.
As a kid I always celebrated my pets’ birthdays, inviting friends over for cupcakes. Our pets participated in our rights of passage too, like my high school graduation. In one photo from that day, my dog, Sandy, is resting on my lap, my cap atop her head. On a trip to Mexico, while walking through town, I stopped to pet a scrawny white cat. Soon surrounded by dozens of purring, meowing, arching felines, I heard my friend say, “How you attract those animals, like a magnet.”
My soft spot also extends to wild animals. I enjoy the antics of the legions of squirrels scampering about my yard, forgiving them the gaping holes they leave in my pumpkins every fall, scattering seeds and leaving stringy orange flesh on my porch. I welcome the birds making spring nests in my hanging plants. And I’m still saving strays. The animal rescue kit in my car came in handy a few weeks ago when I collared an errant beagle wandering a busy road. A few years ago, I even braved inching into a crawl space to save a tiny, one-eyed kitten.
When my son was around four months old, he started noticing our five cats. He smiled and reached out to them. Watching the sweet scene, I knew he’d grow to love animals too. Then I thought, will I be able to resist the ones that follow him home?