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3
An Escalation of Pets
Back home, sourcing a puppy became my pet project. While Emma prepared to return to work, I spent my free time scanning classified ads in pedigree dog magazines. Once I found what I’d been looking for and sealed the deal over the phone, it was just a question of counting down the days before we could collect our very own white Canadian shepherd puppy. I even settled on an appropriate name before I’d set eyes on her. With such a striking coat, I figured something to do with snow would be fitting. Feeling artistic, I turned to the Internet for an Eskimo term. Sesi struck me as fitting. The name wasn’t hard to find, even though I had assumed it would take some canny research. As it turned out, I picked it up from a Web site called Eskimo Names for Your White Canadian Shepherd.
Sure enough, just as the woman on the beach had promised, our new arrival was a darling. For the first few weeks at least. When our seal-like pup started growing sinew and teeth, and then rounding up the children, I figured she might be a handful. As Sesi became more like the wolf I had witnessed prowling the sands, only less submissive to her master, I began to worry that I might’ve bitten off more than I could chew. In the space of three months, we stopped being afraid of the dark and switched our fears to the dog.
One evening, all but barricaded upstairs with the wife and kids, I realized something had to be done. I took my responsibilities seriously, of course. Despite the half-jokes, I had no intention of having Sesi put down or rehoused. I was responsible for a difficult dog. It was down to me alone to do whatever it took to ensure she found her place within the family. What it took involved much of my life’s savings. At a visit to the local dog-training school I learned that what Sesi needed was a monthlong residential reprograming. The trainer, a man who kept a rottweiler named Satan as a kind of calling card, assured me he could bring out the best in her. Figuring my family also needed the break, I wrote the check and swore to myself I would never take on another animal for the rest of my days. Four weeks later, Sesi returned to me as a different dog. According to a parting comment from the trainer, one I swallowed bitterly, she now had the disposition of a labradoodle.
Despite Sesi’s newfound obedience, the experience left me in the doghouse with my family. I’d had my chance to choose a pet. Now it was their turn.
First came the kittens. We’d had some field mice in the loft, so it did make sense. I put forward just two reservations. Firstly, we now lived at the top of a quiet country lane. It was the kind that could see no vehicles whatsoever for an hour or more. Then, when a car did appear, it would hurtle over the crest as if completing the final leg of the World Rally Championship. In my view, a cat caught in the headlights would stand no chance. My second reason for being less than keen on cats took the shape of the dog.
On Sesi’s return from canine rehab, the trainer offered me some advice. Such was her size and spirit, he suggested, it would be safest for everyone if she had some space of her own. This wasn’t down to a fear that she would turn on the kids. It was evident to one and to all that she loved them to pieces. What concerned the trainer was the risk of her trampling them with affection. So, having fitted child gates on the doors into the kitchen and my office, Sesi now occupied the boot room in between. The arrangement worked wonders. The dog was still at the heart of the family. She just couldn’t dominate it. Nevertheless, I had no doubt that one glimpse of a feline mincing through the house would send her into a frenzy. Frankly, I just didn’t need the grief.
“If you get cats, it’ll be your responsibility,” I told Emma. “Should Sesi tear them to pieces, I am not liable.”
“I’ll have my lawyers contact yours,” she replied, before making the call to a friend whose pedigree puss had been knocked up by a stray.
In retrospect, I should have known that my wife would not stop there. Soon after the kittens arrived, without due warning or negotiation, Emma upped her game with the rabbits she had promised. One for each child, to be exact. By now, in terms of pets, she had come close to breaking me. I even helped in setting up the hutches in the yard and their runs out on the lawn. The kids loved all four bunnies equally. It was just that the kind of love they showed didn’t extend to feeding them regularly, cleaning out their cages, or closing them in securely so Miso couldn’t slaughter them. Quietly, I assumed a kind of support role to ensure they didn’t die.
Before long I began to hold out hope that the rabbits might perish prematurely. Unlike the dog and the chickens, they offered nothing in return. What with their daily demands, including ferrying them to and from the lawn for exercise, it felt more like I was caring for invalids. Emma would argue that the bunnies made the kids happy. As I saw things, their hutches took up much of the yard and the runs left us with little space to sit outside.
“Everywhere I look there are cages,” I complained. “It’s like Watership Down meets Guantánamo Bay out there.”
“We’d have more room without the chicken fencing,” Emma suggested. “Why don’t you get rid of it?”
“Because we still have a chicken,” I reminded her. “Maggie might be on her own, but it’s our duty to give her a good life.”
I did think about getting a couple more hens to keep Maggie company and also provide more eggs. What stopped me was the threat of a return visit from the fox. More importantly, I knew that it would prompt the animal equivalent of an arms race. If I could take on more chickens, Emma would regard it as justification for something else that looked adorable but was essentially incontinent. I only had to consider that worst-case scenario to pass on the prospect of additional poultry.
Besides, even Emma could see we were operating at capacity here.
Then the speeding vet reduced the feline contingent by one. It was undoubtedly a sad loss. For my wife, it was also an opportunity. With our number down, here was a chance for her to end the pet standoff once and for all. The stealth moves she went on to make in a bid to swell the animal count would have far-reaching consequences. Not just for me but for every member of the family. Even Emma herself was unprepared for what would become animals of mass distraction.
© 2011 Matt Whyman
