LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
BEACH Bum |
by Eric Morrison |
And Baby Makes...Five!
If you're ever in Aston, Pennsylvania, please swing by and visit the Morrison/McLaughlin Petting Zoo! I moved in with my partner, Scott, a few months ago, with my two adorable feline fur-balls in tow. My cats hate moving about as much as I do, despite the fact that they don't contribute to the packing or heavy lifting. I have one kitty named Lilith, whom I adopted about four years ago from my former roommate. Lilith is truly the Queen of the Castle, and she never lets me forget it. She's a very smart cat, which frightens me a little. One of these times, when I forget to clean her litter box or feed her as soon as I walk in the door, I'm afraid she's going to take some kind of vicious revenge. Maybe holding a cat bed over my face while I sleep? But then again, she's smart, not spitefulunlike her father, who is both. I adopted Lilith's "little sister," Pixie, from the SPCA a couple of years ago. Pixie is playful, sweet, and adorable, and is the spitting image of her big sister Lilith, after you shave off a few pounds. Pixie also has what I consider to be an abnormally small head, which I sometimes guiltily attribute to my accidentally slamming her head in the door when she was a kitten. That sad incident also could explain what seems, at times, to be a less-than-average kitty IQ. But I adore these two spoiled cats, and I still smile every time they greet me at the door, sitting together, watching the birdies, like two furry bookends. Last week, we adopted another animal pal. His name is Oreo, since from the time he was a puppy he was all black and white. Now, some tan has worked its way into his coat, but for the most part, he still has the colors of an I Love Lucy re-run. Oreo is kind of an odd mix. He's half-Chihuahua, half-Rat Terrier, and two-thirds ears. He looks like a slightly larger version of the Taco Bell dog, with a bigger snout and much bigger ears. Fortunately, due to his huge stand-up ears, our radio and cable reception have improved immensely since Oreo joined our happy household. Oreo has old, wise, deep brown eyes that belie his boundless, youthful energy. Come to think of it, he kind of resembles a four-legged, chocolate and vanilla Yoda. Perhaps one day, he'll choose to share some of his eternal wisdom or guide us in the ways of the Force. For now, though, he's pretty much restricted to silent thoughts like, "Play with toy, I will," or, "Dig corn cobs out of the trash, chew on them, then puke on the hardwood floor, I must." The poor, begging pup, he loves people food, but we've decided that his little tummy just can't handle it. So far, he's managed to yack-up corn, watermelon, breakfast sausage, and veggie burgers. He's just a sensitive kind of guy. I'm also learning all about the challenges of raising a dog in a same-sex household. Scott is convinced that I'm trying to turn his little man into a big sissy. I've been banned from carrying him through the mall in a little shoulder-bag, and Scott refused to even consider a pink rhinestone collar. I pointed out to Scott that we should not force a gender role on our child. What if he actually prefers pink? What if he wants to browse the jewelry counter with me at Macy's? But compromise is the cornerstone of good parenting, and I've agreed to skip the mall and the pink collar, and Scott's graciously agreed to let us keep the fun little doggie shirts I got Oreo. Oreo actually loves wearing shirts and sweaters, and with his short, thin fur, he'll need protection from the cold winter days ahead. Oreo is a dog with attitude, and the T-shirts I bought him reflect his feistiness. One is navy blue and white and says on the back, "Talk to the Paw." One is black with silver glitter writing on the back, declaring the world's meekest mutt "Killer." One is all black, with a few rhinestone studs, that labels Oreo an "Obedience School Drop-Out." I'm a little bit concerned about that shirt. I don't want Oreo to get the idea that it's OK to quit at anything, unless that means quitting having "accidents" in the kitchen or sniffing my cats' rear ends. For the most part, Oreo's been a very good boy since he moved in. He has a few training issues, since his former owners weren't big in the schooling department. The first day he moved in, Oreo had two accidents on the kitchen floor. The next morning, he had one accident, and until last Wednesday, he'd been a perfect angel. Wednesday night, I was going to beat my partner home from work, and couldn't wait to take Oreo on a rambling walk through the neighborhood. I approached the baby-gate with a huge smile on my face, but it quickly turned upside-down into a frown, as a spotted a yellow puddle of pee. Then another. Then another. Then another. And yet one more! Walking across the kitchen floor, screaming at our little monster the whole way, my foot landed in another puddlenumber six. This one was soaking into the small rug in front of the sink. Finding myself barefoot and peed-on, I just about blew through the roof. It wasn't a happy night at the Morrison/McLaughlin Petting Zoo. Later, Oreo tried to convince me that he'd been framed by the catsthat had I examined the urine more closely, I would have found that it was only pineapple juice. But I wasn't buying his story. He was tried before a two-man jury of his human peers, found guilty of making our kitchen floor look like the Yellow Sea, and sentenced to an evening alone in the kitchen to think about what he'd done. In all seriousness, I love this little mutt so much already. He's a great addition to our growing interspecies family, and after a bit of drama, even the cats are taking a liking to him. Having never lived with an indoor dog before, I sometimes feel like an unfit mother, learning the ropes as I go, scared to death that I'll squish the soft spot in his head or stick him with a pin while changing his diaper. (Actually, I can guarantee there's not a soft spot on Oreo's hard head, and considering the ungraceful way in which I'm aging, I'll be wearing diapers before he is.) I'm probably not fit to parent a human, I'm learning. I worry far too much. "What if Oreo gets out of the house and runs away?" "What if his leash breaks and he stumbles stupidly into oncoming traffic?" "What if the cats resent me for forcing a canine brother upon them?" "What if I nag Scott one too many times to stop leaving junk-mail lying around the house, and he divorces me for Oreo, who is so much more fun than me, not to mention easy-going?" At least my obsessive-compulsive mental genes can't be passed on to my new son. Just a lot of love, Milk Bones, and head-scratches. If you'd like to purchase tickets to the Morrison/McLaughlin Petting Zoowith all proceeds benefiting the American Humane Association, of courseEric can be reached at anitamann@comcast.net. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 18, No. 10 July 25, 2008 |