I think animals are just wonderful and pets are definitely one of life's little bonuses if you are the type of person to enjoy such things.  To some folks, having a pet is too much of an obligation to tie them down, having to consider pet disposition if you take trips and such.

About 4 years ago, I swore, "NO MORE PETS" because I tend to be the one who ends up taking care of any pet we get.  Of course, since I put my foot down, we've ended up with about 7-8 more pets.  I'd say that no one listens to me, but really, it's more about me listening to myself because most of them were my own damned fault.

There are a few hard and fast rules I do engage and hold dear, however.  First and foremost for Absolute Rule #1 is NO SNAKES.  I have never been a fan, whether you consider it to be the whole primal Eve thing or the whole fear of phallic things (and honestly, I don't buy the whole "fear of phallic things" bit because haven't met one yet that actually scared me, although a few did amuse me a good bit), I just have no interest in the things (the snakes, that is).

My younger brother, back when he was about 5 and I was about 10, set about burying me in the sandbox we had at the time.  Mind you, this was not a pretty little polyurethane sand box filled with fine, white sand like kids have today.  This was a box made out of 4x6's that my dad had nailed together and it was filled with old river sand, complete with little tiny sea shells here and there.  Since we near the Ohio River, it's hard to factor how the sea shells got in there, although I have admittedly not hurt my brain working on that biological oddity.  So this sand was quite heavy.  Allen dug and dug and suggested I plow myself down into the sand so he could cover me up.  I did so, not yet understanding that the degree of disdain I would have for him as an adult would be bought, paid for and well earned.  I was a trusting soul back then. 

Into the sand went I and he began piling it on top of me until there was a good size mound over my little 10 year old body and I literally could not move, a fact I realized only after I was in that state.  Didn't see it coming.  From somewhere, he came up with a little baby garter snake and that ass held it over my mouth and said, "If you scream for Mom, I'm dropping it in."  For a good half hour (you can't say this kid had any kid of attention deficit disorder), he held it there, me all bug-eyed and horrified.  Then something got his attention and he took off doing his little kid things.  Mom finally realized I was missing (likely needed me to do something for her) and came out looking for her.  I yelled when I saw her and she came out and unearthed, or rather unsanded, me. 

Allen watched from inside the house, his little piggy eyes sparkling gleefully as he looked out the window.  When we got inside and I tearfully told my mother what had happened, Allen started to cry, telling her I made him bury me.  Oddly, she believed him and I got sent to bed, which was OK because I was about done with both of them by then. 

That didn't start my white hot hatred of snakes.  It started my white hot hatred of my brother, but my hatred of snakes was in place, as far as I know, from birth.  I just don't dig on snakes.

Having already raised three sons to adulthood, I learned quickly to relax my instinctive disgust for rodents and have played mom to hamsters, gerbils, rats and mice.  None I found to be particular worthy as pets.

Absolute rule #2:  I don't feed living things (or very recently living things) to other living things.  I don't even put goldfish into the turtle's water, although I am not convinced he would know what to do with them if I did.  I am a committed carnivore and there is little I enjoy more than a good steak (medium rare, please) or a perfectly cooked pork chop or some of Walt Tyler's pulled pork.  I embrace my role on the food chain, but not as a hunter-gatherer myself.  The meat I prepare or eat must have cellophane or freezer paper on it already, preferably have no head attached and not still be warm from the kill.  I have, in my Kentucky life, skinned squirrels and rabbits, dressed hundreds of chickens (Which is a stupid word to use because you are literally undressing the chicken.  To say you are "dressing" the chicken sounds like you put a little top hat, coat and tails on him and call him, "Sir") and gutted a fish or ten.  I have had deer and hogs hanging by their heels in my back yard while the blood drained and I have to say, when I left Kentucky, I promised myself I was done with that.  I have no problem with that as long as it's not happening in my line of sight. 

Absolute rule #3:  I love animals, but heaven knows I don't trust them.  I don't trust people a lot of the times, so why would I trust a living thing with whom I can only communicate at a bare minimum and who can't give me clear cut indicators as to why they are pissed at me, just that they are pissed at me?  It could be anything from, "You moved the litter box, what were you thinking?" to "I didn't like the way you said, 'Down.'"  You just never do know.  That basic distrust being the case and since people can go crazy, I figure animals are also given to losing their minds, my policy is that I do not have for a pet any animal whose ass I cannot kick if push comes to shove.  Mind you, I do not abuse or hit my animals, but let's face it, if one of my pets goes all psycho on me and has some kind of meltdown and it comes down to me or the pet, I'm going to be the one walking away.  I might have a scratch or a bite or two on me, but it will be me who has dinner that night.  That rules out things like big dogs, horses (I know a horse can totally kick my ass) and sometimes, birds.  I have seen some parrots that I seriously thought could take me down if they put their minds to it.

Absolute rule #4:  I cannot abide an animal that makes my house smell bad.  That's about all I have to say about that except to say that if I can't take a deep breath and be happy when I visit someone or walk into my own house, I consider that there's a problem.

I'll go all out for my pets and really do care about them once we get past those four basic rules.  We adopted an ever so sweet little gray cat a couple of years ago and we just loved the thing.  He was about 6 weeks old when we got him and just the best natured little beast I ever encountered.  One day, about 3 weeks after we got him, my son said, "Hey, what's wrong with the cat's butt?"  I figured he took a squat in some unfriendly place or something, but HOLY MOLY!!  There was a protrusion about the size of a tennis ball and the color and consistency of jellied cranberry sauce coming out of this cat's ass.  I about had a heart attack. Turns out it's a rectal prolapse where the cat's rectum literally (I was so close to writing "litterly" just for fun) turns inside out and falls out his butt.  It also costs right on $250 for the vet to jam it all back up inside and have his assistant insert her pinky finger into the cat's special exit so he can purse-string the whole thing back together.  Poor Tuffy!  We got him back the next day and he was none-the-worse for wear except for being a little sore.  Then about 3 month later, I'll be damned if the cat's ass didn't fall out again!  Mind you, we are not wealthy people by any means and this was quickly turning into the Cat With the Golden Ass, now at over $500.  The cat's ass was valued at more than I paid for my first car. Unfortunately for me, the cat was just so loveable (and trust me, a cat has to be pretty damned charming for me to invest $500 into his butt, even on the installment plan) that I had to do it.  Now, over a year and  a half later, the cat is big and strong and healthy and just as sweet as he can possibly be with nary a butt inversion in sight.

Speaking of cat butts, I had to cut down mine last night (my cat's butt, not my own butt).  She's a wonderful long-haired white cat who gets matted to the point that she has these huge, felty, dense clumps on her haunches.  Eric has to get out his heavy duty gloves and hold her sweet self down while I trim them out.  A cat's skin is so thin that you have to be super, super careful not to even nick them or it can turn into a huge wound and get infected and well, ugh.  She (we think it's a she) weathered it well and now feels much better.

That particular cat was a home invasion cat.  I have 5 cats and thankfully found a husband who is also a cat person.  Do you know how hard it is to find a good man who is funny and capable and smart and likes cats?  Well, darlin, I did just that.  Anyway, we HAD four cats because my beloved KC (short for Kitty Cat, I just was not in a creative mood that year) who was about 12 had started having seizures and one day just kind of disappeared.  A few days later with only four cats to my name, I heard a cat fussing at the front door, opened it up and this big, white, long-haired cat walked in like it owned the place and hopped up onto my couch.  She hasn't left yet.  I started out calling her Miss Diva because she has such a royal aire to her, but she told Eric her name is Chloe, so Chloe it is.  We think she's a girl, but she's so furry that we can't get a good look at her business (it's been 2 years and trust me, we've tried), so it's either a girl or a neutered boy.

I have never been a fan of dogs as pets because they are just such an incredible amount of work. I have children, thank you very much, and they keep me busy enough.  The best pets we ever had were hermit crabs, which are interesting and entertaining and very, very low maintenance.

The worst ever is the turtle.  We had two, both of which were semi-aquatic.  I rescued God from a yard sale where she (yes, 'she,' shut up) was trapped in a tiny, plastic aquarium with no water.  I bought her for $5 so she wouldn't die and she was with me for about 10 years or so.  Later that year, a co-worker found Q, another semi-aquatic, in her yard and asked me to take him, which I did.  They hated each other on site and in fact, Q had to go into turtle jail (the plastic aquarium) until he could get his bearings and be nice to God, which only took a day or so.  Turtle jail shapes up your attitude pretty fast.

Poor God passed on last year and Q was devastated.  Q has always harbored a dislike for me and I sense "wants a piece of me," but I can take him if push comes to turtle shove.

Turtles are foul, nasty, stinky creatures and you have to change their water really often or they reek.  He and I have come to a good understanding, but it took some work.

Although dogs are not my first choice, I evidently have four of them, rendering me to the status of the Bumpusses on "A Christmas Story."  It all started with a very sweet little white lab looking dog that started hanging around, all skin and bone and jutting angles.  She was so weak when she first got here about 2 years ago and I felt bad for her, so I fed her.  She was absolutely terrified of humans and still is.  She never, ever causes a problem and I refer to her as the best dog we've ever had.  I couldn't tell if she was a boy or a girl dog because she was always cowering with her tail between her legs and would bolt if I got within 10 feet of her, so I just called her Buddy and would after a month or two, she got to where she would come if I called her when I put out food.

We found out she was a girl when she became very obviously pregnant (of course).   Eric fussed and cussed and threatened to have her picked up, but she was so unobtrusive, I couldn't bear to do it.  I changed her name to Belle, but to this day, she still only answers to Buddy.

She delivered on my son's birthday, September 7th, and had a total of 8 babies.  One I found under our truck within an hour of birth.  I named him JoBu (watch the movie "Major League" for details) and handfed him, sleeping on the couch for 6 weeks so he wouldn't wake up Eric.  The other 7 she had in a hole in the woods, which she dug while she was in labor.  Three died and I buried them and built her a lean-to so the living ones wouldn't drown in the rain.  She was very gracious about me messing with them and would get up and walk to the edge of the woods when I would come out to bring her food or check on them.

Of the ones that lived, we were able to find homes for 2.  That brought us down to 2 plus JoBu, who was my behbeh and wasn't going anywhere.  We found a home for the last one, but Eric weakened at the last minute and wanted to keep her as well, so we have the three pups who are now over a year old.  Three dogs equals a pack, so the key is to make sure they know at all times that Mama (that's me) is the lead dog.  They are losing a lot of their puppy rambunctiousness and turning into pretty good dogs.   

About two months after the pups were born, we knew if Belle/Buddy was going to stick around, she had to be fixed.  It was a real challenge because we couldn't get close to her.  To make a long story short, we first trapped her in our dog kennel, which got her localized.  She was fine with that.  I called Animal Control to see about getting a trap to get her to the vet and the conversation went like this:

"So this is a stray?"

"Well, yes, I guess technically.  She's been coming around my house for about a year and I put food out for her."

"If she's been coming to your house for a year and you've been feeding her for a year, then she's your dog."

"But..."

"Where is she when you're not feeding her?"

"Well, mostly under my husband's truck or in the woods across the road."

"She's your dog."

"OK."

So I guess she's my dog, even though I can't touch her still.  After getting her in the kennel, we got the dog trap from Animal Control and literally had to lasso her and pull her into the trap.  It was awful for all of us, most of all, her.  We got her to the vet and Crossroads was GREAT with her.  They got her all fixed up and we kept her in the laundry room for a few days while she healed, then finished out the week in the kennel, then let her go again. She still lives under the truck, still is no trouble and still won't come near us, although she is tickled as hell to see us drive up if we've been gone.  I've caught her walking behind me by just a step or two, but if I turn around, she's gone.  Maybe in the next few years, I can earn a doggy cuddle.

The puppies still love their Dog Mama and she comes to the fence to visit with them all the time when they're outside. 

So what's that?  Three (and a half) dogs, five cats, 1 turtle, a few fish.. yeah, I'm done.  NO MORE PETS!  (I think)

Best to ya,