Pets

Pets
 
I learned early on that animals were made for the same thing children were made for—work. I know, you are gasping at such a comparison.  Before you jump to the wrong conclusion, let me assure you that we kids knew we were loved.  Our parents, though not overly affectionate, showed us love every day.  They provided for our needs and many of our wants.  Their love was evidenced most in their desire to train us to be good adults.  I hope they succeeded.  Teaching us the value of hard work was part of their agenda. 
 
And no, we couldn’t have a dog or a cat as a pet.  A pet would eat us out of house and home and be good for nothing.  And if in a weak moment my dad allowed me to keep a stray kitten, it most certainly could not be brought into the house. 
 
As an adult I understood a bit better my dad’s philosophy.  To him, pets were a luxury.  Going through the Depression, half-starving while trying to farm in the early ‘40’s, working many years as a bridge foreman—all had taught my dad that most luxuries were not affordable.
 
Now, Dad didn’t hate animals—much to the contrary.  He liked them and used them to add quality to his life.  He was an avid deer hunter.  Hunting dogs were essential.  He had a dog pen behind the garden next to the barn.  He had another at the deer-hunting woods on the Sandhill.  We called it the “deer-hunting woods” as part of the family lingo.  The Sandhill was the generic name for a little (and maybe quaint) community near Aurora, NC, called Small.  And believe me, there is no hyperbole in that name.  It is still a small community—“a land that time forgot,” as my cousin once called it.  Both my mom and dad were born and reared there.  Dad did feel guilty at times about the number of dogs he had.  Feed, shots, vet bills, dipping for fleas—all were costly.  I think he justified the expense by believing the venison he brought home would balance the books.  When Mom (or someone else in ear-shot of my mother) would ask him how many hunting dogs he had, he never could remember exactly. 
 
Our “Little House on the Prairie” (actually our little house was located on the west side of Washington, NC, about thirty miles west of Small) was surrounded by corn fields, a lumber mill, a state highway, and a little creek.  We had chickens, pigs, and even a milk cow at one time.  Dad didn’t keep the cow for long, though.  He said we all were getting too fat drinking the whole milk and eating the fresh cream and butter. 
 
And I can’t forget the goats.  One patch of wooded land near the house was a bit hilly and sloped all the way to the creek.  Dad conceived the idea to fence in the land, buy some goats, and let them keep down the vegetation.  His plan worked well for a time.  I spent many hours watching those animals eat everything.  They would reach down, grab a weed, pull their head back up, and then stare at me while munching away.  I always thought they looked like old men with silly goatees who needed to learn how to eat with their mouths closed.  I loved to mock them by imitating their baaaaa’s.  Eventually, the goats began to die, one by one.  I think Dad tired of having to bury each one.  I have since learned that once one goat dies, the others usually catch whatever “it” is and die too. 
 
And, oh my, I will never forget the chickens.  In the spring, Dad would bring home little yellow and brown biddies.  He would secure a heat lamp low to the floor in the chicken house; and those crazy critters would huddle in chirping masses, attracted to the light and the heat. 
 
Dad said chickens are dumb animals.  He said, “They don’t know how to get out of a shower of rain.”  He meant that literally, but he used the same expression figuratively to describe certain people he considered “not quite bright.” 
 
We had a classy hen house.  In the sixties, the trend was for every home to have a large picture window in the living room.  We had one in ours.  I am not sure which came first—the hen house or the picture window; but, at any rate, we ended up with one on the front of our hen house.  I imagine someone gave it to my dad or he haggled for it.  As a joke, Mom made curtains to hang at that window.  I do believe we were the only family within 100 miles that could brag of that distinction—probably the entire world.  The chickens didn’t mind.
 
I have to admit the little biddies were cute.  My fascination soon waned, though.  Because I was the youngest child, Dad relegated the easier chores to me, and he considered picking up the eggs each day as an appropriate responsibility for a ten-year-old girl.  I hated it.  The hen house was creepy and dark (even with the picture window), smelled of ammonia, and was filled with ornery hens sitting on their nests.  I complained to my mom one day how I was scared of the hens because they might peck me.  She replied, “Just shoo them away.”   She made it sound as easy as shooing away a fly—but it wasn’t.  I had a coping mechanism, though.  I determined to pick up only the eggs that were in nests not occupied.  If a hen was determined to remain seated, I did not bother her.  Dad couldn’t understand why the hens suddenly were not laying as many eggs.  I knew why!
 
My knowledge of chickens was limited, though.  I remember vividly sitting at the kitchen table, eating lunch, and studying a picture on the wall in front of me.  It was of a rooster sitting on a fence post.  My sister had given it to my mom because of the marked resemblance of the chicken and the surroundings to our own little farm.  Dad was sitting to my left at the head of the table.  Mom was to my right at the sink.  I must have spoken at the exact time Dad was wolfing down a huge bite of food, because when I finished my query, he choked loudly, followed by a series of coughs and snorts.  All I asked was “What good is a rooster anyway?”
 
But, I must return to the pigs.  As a child, I can’t remember a time when Dad did not “raise hogs,” as he called it.  He would sometimes breed his sow and wait for her offspring, or he would buy young pigs from another farmer.  I learned early on that the best pork comes from a male hog.  To this day, that sentiment is a family joke. If we see a very large pork loin for sale in the grocery store, we smile and quote my long-deceased father by saying, “We don’t want that meat. It must have come from a sow.” 
 
Looking back, I think God must have decided to satisfy my longing for a pet while honoring my dad’s desire for practicality.  In one litter of pigs born to our sow, there were two runts.  (I have always liked the word runt.  I suppose it’s because I am the opposite of a runt.  I was born 9 lbs. 2 oz. and now stand 5 ft. 9 in. tall.)  One runt was extremely small.  We brought him to the house and fed him around the clock with a medicine dropper and a baby bottle.  I don’t believe he survived.  The other runt was a bit larger.  He had enough strength to fend for himself.  He would grunt and wait his turn to nurse.  Eventually, he would crawl over his siblings and find a vacant you-know-what and drink away.  We named him “Little Pig.”  (I know, not very creative.) 
 
Little Pig was the nearest to a puppy I had ever seen.  We discovered his personality quite by accident.  Even though he was growing, he was still smaller than the rest and could easily escape the pen.  One day he ran the sixty yards or so to the house and scratched on the back screen door to get our attention.  You can imagine my delight when I found this squealing ball of energy at our door.  I ran outside and picked him up.  Of course, he was squirming and squealing.  I set him down in the grass, and he immediately rolled over on his back and let me rub his tummy.  He then sat up and ran around the yard squealing in pure delight.  He would follow me everywhere. 
 
I loved every second I was playing with Little Pig.  In fact, the entire family thought well of the pesky porker.  Dad kept trying to fix the pig pen so Little Pig could not escape, but the little guy was smart (unlike the chickens).  He kept finding holes. 
 
Like most babies, Little Pig eventually was weaned from his mother and began to eat the slop that all pigs enjoy.  He grew, and the day came when he no longer could escape the pen.  I would visit him in that smelly place, but his increased size and the fetid environment prevented our former frolics.  School began in the fall, and I was busy.  I would occasionally ask Dad how Little Pig was doing.   One night at supper, the subject came up of what to do with our perky pig.  None of us wanted to think about the little guy being slaughtered, but we all knew his ultimate fate.  The decision was made to sell him to another farmer.  At least we would not be eating bacon, ham, or whatever and wondering if we were eating Little Pig.
 
Dad mellowed a bit as I grew older.  He relented and before I left for college I had a dog and a cat or two as pets—mind you, outdoor pets only! 
 
As an adult, I look back at the menagerie of animals and wish I could have replicated them for my own children.  Though I did not realize it at the time, those animals were a source of much learning, much activity, and many happy and sad memories—the fabric of a full and happy life!