Beloved pets

Pets were a huge part of our lives.  It always saddens me when people tell me they never had a pet in their life.  Their parents would not allow it.  Pets were too much trouble.  They were expensive, tore up things, made messes, and stunk up your house.  Our pets did all the above, but we put up with it and loved them dearly.  Both of my parents had grown up with cherished pets and willingly continued that with us.

Our first dog was Toodles, a sweet little black and white cocker spaniel who would allow us to place her in a baby carriage and push her all through the house.  She died too young of pneumonia and broke our hearts.  She was replaced with Duchess, a boxer.  Duchess was a beautiful animal, but she was protective and mean.  To my mother’s horror, she bit the mailman one day.  We gave her away to one of my father’s employees before she could bite one of us.

One unfortunate custom in the day was the selling of easter chicks and ducks at the local five and dime store.  The wretched creatures came spray dyed pink, yellow, green or blue.  About a hundred of them were kept in the middle of the Winn’s store in a huge glass enclosure with a heat lamp.  It was thrilling for a little child to take home a soft and chirping pink or blue chick or duckling, but then came the care, sheltering and feeding.  The downtown Kress even offered baby alligators in a tank.  Once, Wes had escaped my mother and located them.  By the time she found him, he had proudly fished out his prospective future pet out of the alligator tank and was standing in the middle of the aisle, holding it in his hands.  The alligator did NOT make it home that day.

We did get ducks and gave them the very original names of Daisy and Donald.  Daisy and Donald quickly grew up to be meddlesome and demanding.  We certainly gave them good care, but the clever fowls had learned where we slept and came to our bedroom windows at the crack of dawn, demanding breakfast in loud duck voices.  The local Handy Andy and Piggly Wiggly did not sell duck chow, so my mother and I had to drive all the way to a feed store at regular intervals to buy it.  The feed store was located at the corner of Loop 410 and Nacogdoches.  At the time, it seemed like we were driving to the edge of the world.  In 1955 it was at the very edge of San Antonio civilization.  My mother provided them a wading pool and kept it filled with water which they adored.  After a year or so of being awoken at dawn by demanding ducks, we made the decision to donate Daisy and Donald to the San Antonio zoo.  At that time, the zoo had a huge pond full of white ducks, hundreds of them.  It would be a good home for them.  We went to visit them regularly for a couple of weeks.  We were certain we knew which ones they were, and were convinced they recognized us as well, and those ducks who came running to see us at the fence were surely Daisy and Donald.

Charley the rooster was an Easter chick who belonged to my friend, Debby.  He even made the San Antonio newspaper.  Charley was a one person and fierce little fowl.  He was devoted to Debby but had a tendency to attack anyone else such as her siblings or cousins and grandmother.  Her grandmother was a country woman who would grab the attacking rooster and hold him upside down by his feet.  When Debby came on the scene Charley would play chase with her, then crawl into her lap for a cuddle.  No one else could handle him like this.  He even met his beloved girl at her bus stop every day.  Renwick Carey, who wrote the “Around the plaza” column for the local paper heard of Charley, and did an article about him, complete with a darling caricature of the two of them running towards each other, wings and arms outstretched.  Charley eventually went to live with his own kind on a farm full of hens.  He was probably one happy rooster. 

At the same time we owned Daisy and Donald, we acquired two border collie puppies.  On a road trip to see relatives in Uvalde, my father spotted the puppies for sale at the side of the road.  He knew border collies were great dogs, intelligent and good with children.  He bought a little male which we named Duffy.  We drove a few miles down the road and Wes began taunting me that HE had his own dog now and I did NOT.  I began wailing with the unfairness of it all.  My father had to make a U-turn, return to the puppy salesman and buy me a pup as well.  We named her Penny.  Duffy and Penny lived happily in our back yard for several years.  They were extraordinary dogs.  Border collies must be active and have jobs to do.  It is their instinct.  When we were not out playing with them, they herded Daisy and Donald around in the yard like sheep.  The ducks were first herded and held in one corner of the yard, and then to another corner of the yard.   My father picked up on Duffy’s special talents and intelligence and started lending him to Buck, a local cattle rancher he knew, every Saturday.  Duffy got to spend his weekends doing what he loved and was bred to do.  He became a master stock dog.  He spent his weekends with Buck the rancher, and the rest of his time with us.  Duffy’s excitement when Buck arrived to pick him up on Saturday morning was boundless.  We began to realize that he would be a happier dog if he lived with Buck full time and got to be a real border collie, not a poultry herder.  When he was a few years old, we gave him up, along with his sister Penny.  We knew they would be much happier.  Duffy’s remaining life was joyful, but he met his end under the hooves of a difficult steer he was herding.  Buck came very close to shooting that animal.  We were sad to learn of his death, but Duffy went out doing what he loved.  What more can a dog ask for?

Most cat lovers begin their cat-loving lives with a special cat.  Mine was named Rusty.  He had been preceded by Fritzifroo, the only mean cat we ever owned.  He was a gift from Cousin Beth, who was only too glad to let us have him.  We soon learned why.  Fritzifroo spent a lot of time under the kitchen table maliciously watching us, when he was not running out attacking us and drawing blood.  He should have ruined us on cats for all time, but we kept on trying.  I was a glutton for punishment and kept on trying to pay attention to him and have him for a pet.  After one incident when Fritzifroo bloodied me especially well, my parents hauled him away and dumped him about ten miles across town.  That was the only time they ever disgraced themselves with an animal.  But they paid for it later.  In a few days, he was back on the front walkway, cleaning his face and expecting a meal and another opportunity to hang a claw in one of us.  He had traveled at least eight miles and had crossed I-35 unscathed.  After that, my parents were forced to go to the trouble of finding him a real home with someone who would keep him inside so he could not return to us like a tainted meal.

Sweet little Rusty came to us by accident.   He was the new kitten who belonged to Captain Adams, the WAC who rented the house next door to us.  We did not even know he existed until he confused our houses one night and came scratching and crying at our door instead of his own.  He was a beautiful little thing with a sweet face, and long yellow hair.  For my part, it was love at first sight.  I was completely smitten.  Here was a darling and adorable kitten who willingly cuddled with me instead of spitting and scratching like the dreadful Fritzifroo.  We quickly opened the screen door and let him into our kitchen and our lives.  Rusty instantly became my soul mate.   He lived in my arms, rubbed cheeks with me and slept at my side.  About two days later, Captain Adams came to our door and asked if we had seen a little yellow kitten.   It was hers and he had not come home.  My mother confessed that Rusty had come to our kitchen door and we thought he was lost.  She sent me to fetch my beloved kitten and give him up to his rightful owner. 

I brought him to Captain Adams, and then burst into tears.  I will never forget her kindness and sympathy.  She quickly gave him back to me.  She would not dream of separating the kitten from a little girl who obviously loved it that much.  Then she left and Rusty was mine.

Rusty lived for a number of years and never lost his sweet nature.  Even after Captain Adams moved, she would still drive by from time to time and stop her car at the curb.  I would rush inside to fetch Rusty and bring him out to her car and show her how fine he was doing and how beautiful he had become.  Captain Adams had a great heart.

Rusty lived a good life with us until he died from kidney disease when I was seven.  My parents had done everything possible for several years to save his life, with repeated runs to the vet including blood transfusions.  It was a favor and the honorable thing to do to euthanize him.  He was one of the cornerstones of my childhood and abiding love for cats.

The most memorable dog of our childhood was Skippy, who was supposed to have been a boston terrier, but turned out to be an off breed sly and sneaky devil who was nonetheless beloved.  We had answered an ad in the Northside Recorder when we picked him up.  We found him cowed in his owner’s home after a whipping with a fly swatter.  We got him for only five dollars.  He had the Boston body and coloring, but a long snout.  He was about nine months old and we soon learned why his former owners were anxious to be rid of him.  He was an imp who crashed into our lives, eating everything in sight.  His zest for life and total ignoring of all household rules knew few bounds.   We soon learned he had an intense need to spread his chromosomes and would even try to mate with the cats.  He was flatulent too, laying outside my father’s bedroom window every night and letting loose until dawn.  He had survived distemper as a young puppy, but it had left his teeth rotting and brown and his breath was pretty deadly.  We eagerly accepted him with all of his faults.  It was a perfect match of dog and humans.

Skippy had a strong wander lust and my mother released him every morning before dawn to cruise the neighborhood.  One spring, a bitch in heat got him into trouble with dogfights, including an abscess on his back which burst a week later inside the house.  He grazed down the front of our sofa smearing it with his bodily fluids before my mother managed to eject him.  Then he grazed down the outside asbestos tiles of the house until the abscess was emptied.  At least that could be hosed down.  We had to live with the soiled couch.   My mother made the decision that his wandering days must come to an end.  Little did she realize the battle of wills this would cause.  We soon discovered that Skippy was an intelligent and resourceful little creature who could climb chain link fences like a cat.  He would get a running start, hurl himself to the top of the gate and scramble on over using his back paws.  He could be gone in a matter of seconds.   It was quite an accomplishment.  My mother now tried to keep him in the backyard, but she had to keep an eye on him at all times, or over the fence he would go.  He still managed to escape too frequently if she looked away for a few seconds.  She tried hanging my father’s two pound fishing weights on him, which he managed to remove.  She tried a harness and long line on him whenever he went to the back yard.  He squirmed out of the harness like Houdini as she watched him through the kitchen window and made yet another escape.

My mother was a determined woman and decided that no dog was going to get the best of her.  One day after studying the Sears and Roebuck catalog, she ordered many rolls of wire border for fencing, about two feet in height.  She installed the extra border on top of our existing chain length fence and Skippy was defeated at last.  He could no longer get a firm grip on the top of the gate and had to remain in his territory.  We did make it a point to take him on long walks whenever we could.  He dragged us along on his leash.

Being at home a lot meant we constantly had to combat Skippy’s body odor.  He was a dog who just naturally stunk.  Even when we would fill a galvanized washing tub with warm water and lather him down several times, his odor would return within the hour.  Along with his tendency to break wind, it was something we had to live with. 

Skippy never aged or changed.  He lived the rest of his life trying to connive us out of food, and sneaking onto the furniture and beds when he thought we weren’t looking.  He became a master beggar and a regular at the dinner table, staying up in the begging position for ten seconds or more and raking at us with his claws if he was ignored.  He ate so fast that he would often bring it back up.  He was always up for a game or a walk.  We loved him dearly for nearly ten years before he died of a kidney infection. 

In 1968, Fritz the cat became a member of our family.  We had lost a cat and found Fritz in the dependable Northside Recorder.  He was the first bobtail cat I had ever seen or owned.  His owners were most anxious to get rid of the litter of kittens and were selling them at only four weeks of age.  Fritz was extremely tiny and helpless, and really too young to leave his mother, but the Burlesons were dedicated and made it work.  He dined on strained baby beef until he could eat kitten chow and slept curled over my neck.  Under our care, he thrived and eventually grew almost as large as a Maine coon cat and would weigh in at nearly sixteen pounds.

Neighboring children would see him in our back yard and run away screaming, "They've got a bobcat!"

His former owners had shared with us that his bobtail mother was a dog hater and kept the entire street clear of dogs.  I had never heard of such a thing and did not think much about it until I saw her offspring in full action.

Fritz attacked his first dog in our front yard.  We only heard it crying and saw it running down the street, tail between its legs, while Fritz sat calmly watching it go.  He did not bother to give chase.

I did get to watch him confront two dogs at once which belonged to the neighbor.  They were big dogs as well, 40-50 pounds.  They had spotted Fritz on our front porch and came bounding up, anticipating a good cat chase.  Openly glaring, Fritz watched them coming, and slowly began puffing up and laying back his ears.  When the dogs were about six feet away, he reared on his hind legs and counter charged, raking their muzzles with his claws.  There was not a shred of fear in him.

The horrified and bloodied dogs turned tail and ran for it.  Again, Fritz never bothered to give chase.  They would not return.

Fritz was a long-lived cat, making it nearly thirteen years.  He developed chronic health problems and had to be medicated every day, which we willingly did.  He also learned to bang on front and back doors, and cabinet doors, when he wanted in or out, or wished to be fed.  

His favorite trick was ambushing us or any hapless visitors who were heading for our front door.  We had a very tall and thick boxwood hedge by the front window behind which he would hide.  When anyone walked up to the front door, he would charge out at them, getting a jump and a scream.  He was a sweet natured cat with people, and would never dream of biting or scratching a person, but I am sure he enjoyed scaring us.  Our family at least knew his antics, but sometimes we even forgot and jumped!

Fritz the cat's contemporary was Sugar, a beloved toy fox terrier, and the only purebred dog we ever owned.  We were mutt people, always satisfied with the little mixed breeds.  When Skippy died, we found a newspaper ad for toy fox terrier puppies for $50.  My mother and brother went and bought a little female.  I came home from school and found her waiting for me in the kitchen, so dainty and tiny and sweet natured.  She was about the size of a chihuahua, but with much better "confirmation."  Her body was small, but in perfect proportion with long legs and the graceful fox terrier snout.  She had the perfect fox terrier coloring.  As with Rusty the cat, she was mine from the beginning, moving immediately into my room and my bed.  In the night, she burrowed deep into the covers until I feared she would suffocate, but she was fine.  I have since learned this is a terrier trait.   She and Fritz the cat got along fine, never fighting or having conflict of any type.

When I left for college in 1971, Sugar transferred her affections to my father, but never forgot me.  If I came home late on a Friday night from Austin when all were asleep, I would hear her hit the floor of my parents' bedroom and then the tap tap tap of her claws on the floor as she came to greet me and resume her rightful place in my life.  Sugar was the longest lived of our dogs, gracing our lives for over 15 years.

All of our pets were expensive and a lot of bother and work, but they enriched our lives and we would have had it no other way.