guff

Fragments From the Memory Log, Entry Six

Animals, or as I mean them here, pets, represent an occasional occurrence in my youth. For many American families they provide a regular staple to the growing up experience, a seemingly natural and constant din that falls harmoniously in with the symphony of household noises. For me, I can only key up several long notes.

We had one dog, Tootsie. She was a medium-sized mixed breed, and the first I had more than a nodding acquaintance with. Tootsie was my mother’s dog, which colors much of what I recall; I have a great fondness for her but won’t go so far as to say there was love, if only because she left our family group before I had an inkling on the nature of that lofty and complex emotion. Tootsie had puppies while she was with us. She would let me grab at them while they nursed, but came close to chomping my younger brother’s arm off when he’d venture near; he could only hold one if my parents picked it up and handed it to him. Not hard to understand this behavior once you witnessed his “I’m eating out of Tootsie’s dish” performances. Some children are cruel, but with luck grow out of it. Right bro? Few things about Tootsie stuck in the long term, but she left me a little more sure of the kind of person I can be then any other pet has.

Then there was Fluffy. Not an altogether original name for a cat, but what an original cat it was placed on. Everyone who knew Fluffy has their own Fluffy story to tell, but I’ll go with one of my mother’s, as it shows something of the cat’s demeanor: mom walked into the living room and found my younger brother (the dog food eating faker) in a recliner in front of the television, Fluffy lounging lazily in his lap. As she watched, Fluffy slowly reached her head up to his face and gave him a little kiss, feline nose to human chin. Then the cat backed away and in deliberate fashion went through the motion all over again. And then again. Fluffy sets the bar for all others as far as my pet-vaulting standards go. More the shame in how we lost her to that common modern day pet owner’s horror, the automobile runover.

And then there’s Bizarro Fluffy. He had to be karmic backlash for Fluffy; whatever went wrong I ended up paying for it. If one can be said to have an arch enemy as a child, this cat was mine. I’d prefer to block his name from my mind forever, but I’ll place it here, if only for the additional bit of text it provides: Chip. If cats had shoulders, you would have found this on his — one the size of Mt Fuji. Chip was the runt of his litter, and from then on he always had something to prove. It was typical to have him return home ripped up from a fight with another cat, a fight he inevitably started. Chip was a loser, and knew it, and was constantly pissed off about it, too.

My problem with Chip, hence my hatred, was simple: he picked me out of the family herd as the one least likely to fight back, so I became the main target for his rage. At any time I could expect a clawing from him. And think cats don’t bite? Think again. The damn little insane puma actually cornered me once. I was eight years old, and as you may realize from my comment on Tootsie’s pups, I was not one for hurting animals. What was I going to do, kick him? He knew I wouldn’t. Chip’s temper was notorious, a cause célèbre throughout our neighborhood. The joke was that if someone came up against our family, we’d threaten to release The Treatment on them. Considering Chip couldn’t even chase a mouse (I mean that literally), it truly was a joke. Just a bad one.

I might have a dog as a pet in the future, but I don’t plan on keeping another cat any time soon, and by that I mean never. Sometimes all it takes is for one chip to go down wrong to put you off them for good. Mine not only went down the wrong pipe, it nearly scratched me to death.