The Menagerie

When I moved to Austin, Texas, I was hoping to allow my heart to find a time and a place to heal. I hoped that the environment of a bigger city would be different enough from the small town atmosphere to keep my mind occupied on something other than my loss. I found respite in the walks I could enjoy on the beautiful hike and bike trails that are woven throughout the city and I immersed myself in this daily activity. The repetition, the challenge, and the release of endorphins allowed me a chance to slowly learn to live again. I was able now to notice things that I had never paid attention to before. Things like pets. On these walking trails, many people bring their pets. I started to notice that, either Austin people were completely different in the way they treated their pets, or big city folks had to handle their pets differently than those in a rural community. As I walked and observed, I tried to remember the pets that have been a part of my life both as a child and as a parent. The memories that are so vivid to me, the ones that make me smile, would probably scare the pet loving people that I see in the city. I can tell that the pets on the trails and in the parks are well loved and cherished. Just as the pets of my childhood were. I can see that city pets come in every shape, size and model. As did the pets I remember so clearly. The pets in the city are well groomed, well behaved, and well trained. Not at all what I recall from my pets of the past.

Tinker. I have heard that people tend to resemble their pets. I have looked closely at my siblings, my parents, and myself; and thankfully I cannot find any support for that myth. I know I may just be too close to the situation to be an impartial judge. However, my first and most lasting memories of our dog Tinker, don’t really remind me of any members of my family. Tinker lasted through all of the Swanson children. She was very old when she died. I know during her lifetime she had guarded my brothers during their escapades, listened to complaints from whomever needed to purge themselves, hidden behind bushes during games of hide and go seek, and given birth almost as many times as my mother. Tinker never complained. Tinker never left home. Tinker never took sides. Tinker was always loved as a member of the family. And, Tinker was not too pretty. She was a cocker spaniel and actually was a pretty dog until she got hit by a car. She lived, but one of her eyes was destroyed in the accident. The result was very unattractive, but none of us really cared. We were just proud she was alive. When others saw Tinker for the very first time, you could hear the quick intake of breath when they spotted the mutilation surrounding her eye. It took this reaction from others to remind us that our dog was not a normal looking dog. The stories at the lunch table always have a reference to Tinker or one of her offspring, Briquetta. I am not really sure why my mom consented to letting us keep one of Tinker’s puppies. That was just one more mouth to feed. I know that Tinker was getting up in years and perhaps Mom saw this pup as one who could fill the empty spot when our beloved Tinker was gone. The puppy’s name came about pretty naturally. My dad manufactured charcoal. When we saw Tinker’s puppy for the first time, we noticed the special markings of her fur. She had a soft, curly black coat, and her paws were all a light gray color that extended halfway up her legs and just simply faded into the black fur. It reminded all of us of a partially burned charcoal briquette. Because she was female, we made the adjustment and added “etta” to briquette. I am sure that no other family in the entire world would have seen a partially burned briquette when they looked at this dog, but it was crystal clear to us. We knew charcoal.
Although I might hesitate to utter this sentiment aloud in Austin, Texas, I have discovered that I am not a real dog lover. Of course I would never want any harm to come to any pet, but I just have no desire to put forth all of the effort that it takes to keep a dog alive, healthy, active and happy. It was perfect when I had children at home. My kids needed a pet for the same reasons that my siblings and I needed one when I grew up. A pet’s love is unconditional and life lessons are learned just by the caretaking involved. My kids were the Persons In Charge of our dog. Consequently, Boofers was worshipped. Boofers. I cannot even begin to rationalize from whence the name came. Boofers had a dog house built by one of the premier builders in East Texas. You would think it would be a thing of beauty. It was solid. And, it was sturdy. But it was kid decorated and the name “Boofers” was the biggest thing painted on the outside of the house. Boofers was part border collie and part chow and was rescued from the pound. Boofers stubbornly refused to ride in a vehicle of any sort. (We are pretty sure she did not react in this manner to transportation until we took her to the vet to have some medical attention and had to leave her for a few days.) Being married to a home builder, part of our life involved packing up and moving quite often. Try as we might, we could never get Boofers in the truck to move with us. I guess she just learned to recognize that when a trailer was being loaded with furniture, it would soon be time to take off on another “trek”. Thank goodness our moving was confined to Jacksonville. Moving day was the only time Boofers would ever leave the house and she would only leave then on foot. No amount of bribing or coaxing would convince the dog that we were not going back to the vet. So, as we made our move to a new home, all four kids would hang out of the windows of the truck whistling and encouraging Boofers along. We would make stops often to try to get her on board but to no avail. It would sometimes take a couple of days to have Boofer’s breathing return to a regular pattern after a move, but she obviously felt that it was worth it. I am sure our neighbors thought that we were abusers. The labored breathing from long trips was probably not the only reason that onlookers would tend to question our treatment of Boofers. Our kids also tended to the grooming of our animal. Apparently this was another huge difference in the city dogs on the trails and the dog that belonged to my kids. When my son would trim Boofer’s fur in the summer time, he would want her to match the lawn that he had just mowed. With the lawn mower Bud had meticulously mowed his name in the grass. The letters were cut large enough and deep enough that they were easily seen and quite legible to everyone driving by the house. If passersby could tear their eyes away from the strange trimming of the yard, they would notice the dog whose fur sported the same name. B-U-D was buzzed into Boofers fur so that he could match the yard. That way, I was told, our dog would not have to wear a collar. It was be easy to find where she belonged if she ever got lost. As the years went on, and the groomings occurred less often, Boofers’ adverse reaction to getting bathed took on a force equal to that of her desire to never ride in a car. The fur around Boofers hind legs was so matted that it almost became animated as she walked. My kids’ friends came over just to see Boofers. They loved our dog with the funny fur and I am quite sure that the looks of our pet became topics of Sunday lunches all over town.

A portion of the stories at lunchtime dealt with Jake, the bird dog that my dad so romantically presented to mom on her anniversary. However, dogs were not the only pets that were part of our formative years. My brother Bill could only have been thinking of his younger brothers and sisters when he brought home some guinea pigs for us to keep while he was away at college. And, Martin had all five of us digging a pit in the back yard for the alligator that he acquired. We each took turns feeding the pet gator, and were often forced to build small fires in the pit to keep it from freezing. One of my brothers brought home a boa constrictor. What excitement that stirred in our house! No one else had a boa constrictor and thus another reason existed for a line of visitors to keep filing into the Swanson home. So that my mom would not have to worry about feeding the snake, Bill also brought home a little white mouse for the snake to eat. Anxious to see nature at work, several of the brave kids stood around as the mouse was dropped into the cage with the snake. Minutes passed and nothing happened. Minutes turned into hours and still the mouse was not touched by the snake. We decided that the snake would not eat until night time so we all turned in for the evening. My uncle was visiting us at the time and he was asleep in the room with the snake. Uncle Jim was my dad’s older brother and had no kids of his own. I am sure that each visit to our home was an experience, but this particular visit must have been one of his most memorable. Early the next morning, those that were anywhere near Uncle Jim’s room could hear the exact time when he awoke. The kind, gentle, quiet man was heard quite loudly and clearly the next morning when he exclaimed, “My God, it’s a rat!” My brothers went rushing in to check on him and saw that the little white mouse that was supposed to be snake food was sitting on Uncle Jim’s chest enjoying a siesta outside of his cage of doom. Quickly the mouse was returned to the cage. The next morning, as we checked on the status of the mouse, we were all surprised to see that this mouse had not become dinner for the snake. The snake had become the meal for the mouse! I am pretty sure that this was an occurrence that could not have happened in any other home. Combine 11 kids, a bachelor uncle, a boa constrictor, and a mouse and you just never know what might happen next. Never a dull moment.

The hamster/ gerbil phase was big in our line of pets, too. I know that my brother Pat saved enough money to buy 4 gerbils one year. We kept them in a cage in the den. I am not sure how much food those gerbils had, but as I look back, I know that each one of us would give them a little food each time we passed through the den. That had to be a lot of food, even for rats. One day my mom was pretty upset that one of the gerbils had escaped, but she calmly reached down, caught the rodent by his tail and plopped him back into the gerbil den. As she turned to leave, she stopped to count the number of gerbils. There seemed to be one extra. Upon closer inspection, she realized that she had just picked up a mouse and tossed him into the cage with the gerbils. Another testimony as to the vastness of my mother’s endless capabilities! My own kids also had hamster experiences. Rambo the hamster, that was cousin Hunter’s school take home charge over the summer, provided lots of entertainment for everyone. Sometimes the adults were not privy to the various methods of entertainment until it was too late. For instance, on one occasion, the kids would each grab a corner of a blanket, place the hamster in the middle of the blanket, and see how far in the air they could “flick” Rambo. The hamster seemed to be enjoying the rides and so they moved the hamster launching pad to the den where the ceiling was much higher and the little guy could fly even further! 1….2…..3….flick….fly! When we heard the laughter in the den getting louder and louder we went to check out the source of the fun. We opened the door and distracted the “flicking” of Rambo. When the kids turned to look at who was entering the room the blanket went much tauter and the hamster consequently went much higher. Rambo went so high that it hit the moving ceiling fan and was sent flying off of the fan blades and across the room. After slamming into the wall, and sliding down to the floor Rambo seemed a little dazed and confused. All of the kids were concerned but after a while, Rambo seemed to recover without any ill effects. I am sure that it was the only hamster in history that was actually grateful when school started up again and it could return to the peace and quiet of 25 school children on a daily basis.

I guess the list of pets and this chapter could go on and on and on. Pets at Easter time were highly anticipated. Papa would always bring home brightly colored chicks for all of the kids. We would sit and play with the chicks for hours upon hours. We each had our own special color of chicken. I know that after Easter the chicks were always taken out to a farm where they would have a better chance of living a peaceful life. Well, those chicks that made it through the holiday were taken to the farm. As we all shared the status of our chicks with our parents each evening, Randy, the calmest and most gentle of the younger boys, always had the same report for his pet. His line was always, “My chicken died.” He delivered it the same way, in the same tone, with the same sadness each year. We never really figured out what happened to Randy’s Easter chickens. We just knew that without fail, it was always, “my chicken died”.

I understand that most people cannot relate to these unusual pet episodes. Many would cringe as they think that these animals were possibly even abused. I did not see it that way. No animals could have had more love lavished on them by more people. Although hamsters are not supposed to go flying through the air, my kids got to see first hand how being careless could really harm something that was alive. Just telling them that they could hurt Rambo would not have made such an impact. All of my kids have dogs today and the houses of those dogs are decorated by their kids. So far, all of their fur remains nameless. Just yesterday, we gathered most of the Swanson clan for Easter at Martin and Jackie’s ranch. This has become a tradition that is much anticipated each year. My Mom, now 87 years young, was, as always, the guest of honor. I watched her as she studied the crowd. Was she wondering who was going to say “mine died” as she watched her grandkids play with the still present brightly colored chicks? Did it bring back memories of anniversary presents, gerbils, white rats, and Tinker? I am not ever quite sure what goes through her mind as she studies all of the action at these family gatherings. I know she has been a source of inspiration to me as I continue to search for a way to heal. I hate for her to see me hurting, but know that she is one of the few that can truly understand the pain of my loss. There she was on Easter Sunday surrounded by her family. I watched her as she covertly studied me to see how I was coping. She leaned over with that ever present wry smile, held out her arms to indicate the chaos and said, “Just look what I started.” As I turned to take a more focused look around I saw exactly what she meant. I think I could see what I know now that James must have felt at these gatherings. I saw the kids, the grandkids, the great-grandkids, the in-laws, and an assortment of pets. Even if James and Papa are gone, there will always be part of “what they started” present. I smiled and watched my grandkids as they played with the chickens on Easter Sunday. I smiled as it was my own kids’ turn to rescue dirty dogs and flying hamsters. And, I could actually smile at the end of the day when I softly whispered, “Look, James. See what we started?”