Talents Shouldn't Be Wasted

As someone who has two dogs and a cat in his household, I'm always sensitive to those with animals. This following humorous article from Jean Leedale Hobson in Senior Citizens Magazine is perhaps something a few of our readers can relate to. Log onto www.seniorcitizensmagazine.com to read more from that website.

Today, in a NO PETS ALLOWED apartment building, I am living vicariously through my grandchildren's parade of pets, empathizing with their pleasure and pain from my safe sidelines. Been there, done that , thank you.

I wasn't prepared for one aspect of motherhood -- an ongoing need to be an amateur veterinarian. Would a degree in Animal Husbandry have helped me to revive a turtle my little son had braved traffic to rescue when it was run over by a truck? Or, how to reverse the fate of an overfed goldfish?

I did temporarily wear a halo -- when my warm hands coaxed a weak flutter in a tiny bird that had crashed into a window. Or maybe it was my impersonation of Nellie Forbush in 'South Pacific' when she willed Emile, in great danger, to 'live, live, LIVE!' Whatever -- I was forgiven for recent failures in the turtle and goldfish episodes. In a household consisting of a softie-daddy, a tender-hearted mommy, two pet-adoring sons and a nurturing daughter, animal rights always overrode the human kind.

We collected cats, willingly or otherwise. One, definitely a male, (so said the friend who unloaded 'it' on us) unexpectedly presented us with sextuplets. Never dreaming that 'his' weight gain presupposed maternity, we missed out on preparing a blanket-lined basket for the event. The babies thrived, however, in spite of their unceremonious birth in the basement. And -- we made sure our friend never heard the end of it!

We named another 'Butterscotch', for his color and also his passion for that pudding, pestering me until I put some in his dish to keep him occupied while the kids ate theirs. Another name would have fitted -- 'Pablo' -- because of his penchant for Pablum. When tonsillitis had our younger boy on a soft diet, Butterscotch would leap onto the child's bed tray and, if I didn't intervene quickly enough, slurp the soft cereal with selfish disregard for the patient 's need.

Dogs? Of course our private petting zoo was home to plenty of dogs -- all Heinz 57 varieties of them. But that's another story ....

The smallest label I wore was that of 'writer' in my ongoing battle against commitments and the clock in my longing for creativity. Until Jingles entered the scene! We'd bent the budget on a cottage, telling ourselves we'd have fun on weekends, and a ready-made summer vacation spot. But was a pony even contemplated? No way! Until...

Fast forward to a May weekend and another cottager wanting to sell the pet his kids had outgrown. Presented with the price, Daddy vanished for a sudden swim, the kids pleaded, Mommy was a goner when a velvet nose nuzzled her hand, and the bankbook screamed 'No,no, NO!' But Mommy, on a wild impulse, promised to write stories night and day to earn enough to buy Jingles by the start of school vacation. Me and my big mouth , I berated myself, using up typewriter ribbons, paper, stamps and creative energy.The kids glued me to the typewriter, they helped around the house, and collectively we agonized over the wait for editors' reports as summer loomed and we feared Jingles might be sold. Before I could earn a gold star along with editors' checks,Daddy came through. With the joy of Jingles in the family, strangely the writer hardly missed the short-lived respect for her work! Writing was back at the bottom of the heap, and did she care? No -- she was too busy petting a pony.

A farmer near the cottage area kindly offered to board Jingles over the winter, and, at the time, strangely we happened to be pet-free at home. I vowed we would stay that way, closing my ears to our older son's pleading to take in his buddy's rabbit as the family was moving away.

"A rabbit indoors all winter? I think not! " said the wicked mother-witch.

The neighbors moved out, Scamper moved in and took over. He pee-d puddles and dropped raisins with blissful disregard for personal hygiene or the hours I spent with paper towels and a mop in my hands. I bought a cat comfort station, but he thought the litter was a tasty treat. I even contemplated putting him through the indignity of wearing disposable diapers.

At the height of my desperate threats to find him a new home, came snow and the need for a plastic boot tray inside the back door. Scamper chose, for his own bunny-reasons, to do his bunny-business on it one day. I grasped at a straw and at intervals through the day plopped him onto the tray and waited. Sure enough, perserverance won. Scamper's permanent residence and my sanity were both assured as we shared the credit and the curtain calls at the family's accolades for our success. I was re-installed as a nice person in the kids' estimation, the wicked witch had vanished along with Scamper's bad habits.

Now that I'm retired, with time on my hands, shouldn't my varied experience count for something? Wouldn't some pet shop owner appreciate my part-time services? Couldn't an overworked veterinarian find some menial tasks for a willing volunteer? Degrees I have none, but I respectfully (and humbly) submit that in one area I am a highly successful expert: I sure know how to housetrain rabbits!