My Favorite Pet

 Originally Published Dec. 2012

It’s really hard to write about my favorite pet because each pet I had was always considered my favorite at the time.  You may recall that I wrote about my first dog, Butch, earlier this year (remember the dog who liked to chase trains while wearing an apron and mittens?).  While Butch was our “main” pet, we also had secondary pets throughout my childhood; such as, baby chicks or rabbits at Easter time, and a couple of parakeets (Skippy and Pretty Boy) who lasted about a year each before succumbing to lack of affection by me and my siblings—probably because they never learned how to talk and weren’t much fun!  

No cats, though.  I guess some families are either “cat” or “dog” people and our particular family happened to like dogs.  After Butch died, we got a black Cocker named Peppy and after she got hit by a car, we took in a golden lab that we should have named “Idiot.”  He actually would lie in the middle of the road and dare the cars to drive around him.  You can be sure that he didn’t last long because a car eventually got him, too.

Before I get around to telling you about my really favorite dog, I do have to relate a story about the Easter my parents gave each of us kids our very own little yellow chicken.  Oh, they were so cute and soft and we quickly made a home for them in a huge box that we then placed in a spare room upstairs.  

We dutifully fed and watered them a few times a day and played with them as well.  They really didn’t get much of a chance to grow, however.  You see, about a week after they joined our household, my sister, Joanne, and I discovered all three of them dead in their little homemade cage.  Two of them had been pecked to death and the other one drowned in the water bowl.  It turned out that it was my chick that had committed this double-murder/suicide and, therefore, somehow, according to my brother, that made it my fault. 

So, of course, we had to give them a proper funeral:  they each were placed in their own lined shoebox.  The whole bunch of neighborhood kids sang, “Jesus Loves Me” and we recited the rosary as we walked the long dirt road to their final resting place next to the tracks.  The funeral ended with a 21-gun salute from my brother’s BB gun.

And, now, I’d like to tell you about Poly.  During the summer of my freshman year in high school, a friend of mine gave me a puppy.  I took one look at this little round ball of yellow fluff and fell in love.  My only problem was convincing my mom and dad to let me keep him.  Well, that little rolly poly puppy jumped in my dad’s lap and placed little kisses all over his forehead and, well, let’s just say, I didn’t have a problem anymore!  We immediately named him Poly.

Even though Poly was officially my dog, my parents soon took over full responsibility for his care and feeding.  Poly was so loveable that it didn’t take long before he became a part of my extended family.  You see, Poly quickly learned that my grandparents, who lived a few blocks away from us, always had a bone or table scraps for him whenever he’d trot over for a visit.   Poly would visit grandma and grandpa every day.  Sometimes, several times a day.  Eventually, he grew into his name and truly became “roly poly.”

Poly had a knack for knowing when someone needed him.  When my grandma died, Poly noticed that my grandpa was very lonely.  So, one day he trotted over to grandpa’s house and stayed.  He didn’t come home to us.  He just sort of moved into grandpa’s place and kept him company.  My grandpa now had someone to talk to, someone to feed and he had a reason to get up every morning – because Poly had to go outside for nature’s call, of course.  Poly stayed at grandpa’s for about nine months and then, one day -- for some reason unbeknownst to us – he came back home.  I guess he figured his job was done.

Like most dogs, I think, Poly had his idiosyncrasies – for example, he would become very scared in a thunderstorm and would run down the steps to the basement as fast as he could whenever the lightning started.  One summer’s day, soon after my folks (and Poly) had moved out of the big white house and downsized into a two-bedroom bungalow by the lake, a huge storm came up out of the north.  Soon after the storm hit, the phone rang.  It was the woman who had bought my parent’s house.  She said, “don’t worry – Poly’s with us.  He barked at the side door and when I opened it, he ran down the steps into the basement and curled up in the corner.  We’ll let him out after the storm leaves.”  I guess one always goes back to where one felt safe!

So, you see…. Poly was not only my favorite pet – but my parent’s, my grandma and grandpa’s, and everyone he encountered on his daily jaunt around town.