The Secret Life of Pets

I had very few pets when I was growing up. I could probably count them all on one hand. My mother couldn't stand any animals in her home. “Animals belong outside,” she would say, “Not in our home where I have to clean up after them.” My dad's family always had animals in their home - at least a dog or two.

My father never asked my mom if he was thinking about getting a pet. He’d just show up after work with a shoebox or some sort of container and inside would be the cutest pet. My mom would just shake her head.

What else could she do now?

The damage was done. She would just reinforce what she had already preached, “I'm not taking lead. Feed and water it. If it dies it's your fault!”

I was around five years old when we started getting these precious creatures. My first was a small turtle - the ones where the turtle shells were hand-painted. Mine had beautiful hand-painted flowers on it and my name. Let's not forget about the turtle's home. A clear acrylic kidney-shaped dish with a glorious tropical island in the middle with an elegant palm tree.

I'm sure this turtle was one happy fella. As to how long the turtle lived, I had no idea. I do remember feeding it lettuce - at least once.

The next pet I remember (I was about eight years old) was a vibrant blue parakeet. I named it “Tweety.” Creative, huh? I loved my Tweety. Trained him how to sit on my shoulder and drink coffee out of my coffee cup. Trained him to talk - not many words but a few.

He had a small bell that he carried in his beak and if anyone touched the bell, he would peck you till you bled. He trained me very well. I learned not to touch the bell.

I let him fly free in my bedroom during the night and in the mornings, he would wake me up by pulling on my covers. After Tweety passed away - no more parakeets for me - it was just so painful losing him. There would never be another Tweety.

I was around 11 when Heidi, my black and white rabbit, came into our lives. Boring! She let me hold and pet her but that was just about it! My mother was happiest with this pet because her cage was outside, far away from our home. And, yes, I did feed her more than once.

Then, dad brought me home a duck – A DUCK! Now, at the time, we were living in a third-floor apartment. What do you do with a duck in a third-floor apartment? And, why a duck? I remember it was close to Easter and most kids were getting baby chicks that were dyed pink, blue, or green. But my dad brought me a baby duck! Yep! You can just imagine how excited my mom was about the duck... his home was a cardboard box. (But it wasn’t outside...)

One afternoon, right after I had gotten in from school, I decided to take the duck out for fresh air - or JUST AIR! Let me remind you again... we lived in a third-floor walkup. Our back door opened up onto a fire escape with a small landing no more than three or four feet.

Picture this - me taking my little duck out on the landing, opening the box, the duck comes out and immediately takes a dive off of the third-floor fire escape.

All the way down to the ground. What did I expect? The duck to just sit there breathing in the fresh air? Who was the dumbest? Me or the duck?

Yes, the duck survived! Me, on the other hand, I had a heart attack; I, too, survived.

But, needless to say, we got rid of the duck. Sent him to a better “earthly” home. If I had just kept him, I'm sure I would have sent him to his “heavenly” home.

Now that I look back on all my experiences with animals, it's a pretty good thing my momma said no to pets in our home.

In this case, it wasn't father knows best. It was definitely mother knows best.

~ Jeannie Joyner