My parents were averse to pets such as dogs and cats, and horses and sheep, and anything larger than a coffee cup. They were indulgent with my pet hamsters, of which there were five over the years. In fact, there may have been more with my mom reincarnating a dead hamster with a live one overnight so I would not experience the loss of my beloved pet. I would notice that the hair around his ears may have darkened, or that she had grown a male private part, but in my naiveté, the truth eluded me.

In the fifth grade, when I was a crossing guard stealthily assisting students across a small side street that never had any traffic, I was honored to be chosen to represent Oakland Beach School on a trip to Washington D.C. It was a wonderful educational expedition, and frolicking around the sites was great fun. It was not so much fun at home for my mom, who was stuck at home with Mickey. (Yes, all of my hamsters were called Mickey, male or female.) She had always been squeamish around them, probably reminiscent of her days growing up during the depression when mice and rats were common occupants of the apartments in which she lived. Unlike myself, who would have chased the little buggers and tried to capture them as pets, my mom was the cartoonish type who would have stood up on the chair and screamed “Eeek!” Caring for Mickey in my absence became a real challenge for her. She seemed to do okay filling the water bottle, which was strapped onto the outside of the cage, but how she fed him/her without opening the cage was a mystery to me. Perhaps she threw one of those carrot colored treat sticks through the bars of the cage, or slid some lettuce or peanuts in. Whatever she fed Mickey, he/she was plump and happy when I returned from my trip. However, it WAS apparent that she had not opened the cage at all because the wood shavings at the bottom were stinky and soiled. He/she was still alive, so who was I to complain?

Fast forward to 2022. I am a happy, hard working mom and grandmother, and my son, Steven, lives with us. Six months ago, he endured the death of his beloved dog, a sweet, thirteen-year-old pit bull named Sampson. He grieved this loss by…what else?...going out and getting a new pit bull puppy he named Max. He was a sweet little puppy who soon grew to be a huge, six-month old puppy. The size of an elephant, he barely squeezes into the extra-large crate designed to hold him during the day while we are all at work. If he is let loose in the house, he chews on anything he can find, including new shoes, electrical cords, shower curtains, plastic tea mugs, table legs and couch cushions. I have purchased chew toys for him, which he promptly chews into little bits and spits out as he moves onto other household items.

We recently spent money to put up a six-foot-tall chain link fence in the backyard, assuming he would love to play outside, which he does…except his play includes pushing at the bottom of the fence so he can escape, or jumping OVER the fence so he can escape, or digging a deep hole underneath the gate so he can escape. Once when he got loose he ran out onto the street straight at a sweet, elderly woman walking her nicely coiffed poodle. She stopped in fear as this massive dog, whose breed has a bad “rap”, came running towards her. Max was so excited to see another dog that he laid down on the ground and excitedly nuzzled the startled poodle. I screamed for Max to “come”, which he did promptly, almost knocking me over in the process. Caring for Max is such a challenge, but I do it because he is my son’s pet and I love my son.

My mom and I both had difficulty taking care of our grand-pets, no matter what their size. Max is difficult enough and I am thrilled that Steven’s snakes, lizards and turtles don’t need care.