David Torrid
This is one of the horses that we had when I was a child. He was a Standardbred racehorse with some pretty bad leg problems when my father got him in a claiming race at a county fair. He tried his best to correct the problems, but even surgery didn't help much.
He was a funny horse, though. Ferris wheels scared the bejeezus out of him. And, once he saw one, that was it for the day. He had to be blindfolded in the trailer and he always wore both a shadow roll and blinkers when he raced. My older brother, in his infinite wisdom ::snicker::, decided he was going to break David to saddle, come hell or high water. David had other ideas. I don't know how many times he threw my brother, but Daddy is still fond of saying that he saw David throw my brother so high he needed a parachute to land safely. LOL When we moved from Delaware state, my father sold David to an Amish family to be used as a buggy horse. I hope they treated him well because I was devastated at having to leave the horses--especially David--behind.
Zeus
Zeus was a big mixed breed dog that my parents picked up soon after I was born. The family went to Florida to visit relatives and we brought Zeus back on the plane with us. He was so tiny that my sister fed him from one of my baby bottles to keep him quiet during the trip.
Since we lived on the farm, Zeus was an outside dog, even after we moved to the city. Even though we knew he was part black Lab and part Cocker Spaniel, he was a great ratter. We used to go outside in the morning and he would be proudly displaying his night's catch on the top of his dog house :) He was an amazing friend and proved that old dogs CAN indeed learn new tricks! When Zeus and I were eight, I took up the task of obedience training with him and he passed every test with flying colors! Unfortunately, Zeus got colon cancer and had to be put to sleep when I was ten. I will never forget him, though. He was fantastic and I miss him very much.
Muffy
Here is my first feline baby, wrapped up in my baby blanket. My sister's cat, Mitzi, gave birth to him when I was about six and I loved him to death.
With me, Muffy was a big softy. He let me carry him around and even learned to walk on a leash with me. That trick earned him the "Best Behaved Pet" award at a local pet show when I was eight years old. Although he doesn't look it here, Muffy was a H-U-G-E mitten-pawed tomcat and spent many nights fighting to defend his territory from intruders. There are still many cats in the neighborhood who bear his distinctive look. He was about 5 years old when he was hit by a car in our neighborhood and killed. (Reason #1 that my current cats, Jezzebel and Merlyn aren't allowed outside.)
Max
This is Max, who was Muffy's nephew (his mother, Tiger, was Muffy's half-sister). He was a great cat, but entirely different than Muffy. To keep the same tragedy from happening with Max, we had him neutered. He maintained a kitten-like playfulness his whole life; his favorite game was for me to cast a fishing bobber (no hook) across the yard for him. He would chase it for as long as I'd keep casting it.
Max wasn't much of a mouser; he preferred to chase grasshoppers, butterflies, yellow jackets, and honeybees. My father used to make fun of his lack of interest in "real" hunting because Tiger was the best mouser we've ever had. That changed the day Max leaped off the front porch (about six feet in the air) and snagged a bat in mid-flight. I felt bad for the poor bat, but BOY! Was I ever proud of Max.
Unlike his uncle Muffy, Max was pretty much a "stay close to home" type of cat, which was fine with me; I was paranoid that he, too, would be hit by a car. Those fears were groundless and Max lived about eight years. During the school year, my mother could tell I'd be coming home soon because, every weekday, Max would run home five minutes before I was due to arrive. He did this consistently until my senior year in high school, when--shortly after the above picture was taken--we found him beside our neighbor's house. He'd been poisoned by a malicious neighbor who decided it was his job to rid the neighborhood of strays by poisoning tuna fish with antifreeze. (Reason #2 that Merlyn and Jezzebel stay inside!)
Yankee
This was the world's best American Cocker Spaniel...whose story is the hardest for me to tell. He's been gone for nearly a decade now, but the wound to my heart still seems fresh. As I write this, tears stream down my face. I had never imagined that owning a dog could bring such joy, followed by such pain.
After Zeus passed into the Summerland, I spent months begging my mother to allow me to have another dog and I even saved the money to purchase one. That was no mean feat, considering how tight money was in our family in the early 80's. I hadn't planned on getting a Cocker Spaniel, since I knew that a long-haired dog would take L-O-T-S of care; instead, I was looking for a Boston Terrier.
The search for a dog seemed as fruitless as the Quest for the Holy Grail; my parents and I spent months combing the classified ads, looking for Boston Terrier pups for sale. Every time an ad appeared and we called, the last puppy had been sold minutes earlier. For a 10 year old, that was enormously frustrating. I wanted a dog and I wanted one RIGHT THAT MOMENT...
I can't remember exactly what happened to make us call about the ad for Cocker Spaniel puppies, but we did. When my dad was told they had just one puppy left, we hurried right over to the farm where they were bred. The breeder said he couldn't understand why no one had chosen the last pup, who he considered to be the pick of the litter. When a little ball of blond fluff toddled over to me and climbed into my lap, I fell instantaneously in love with him. So, that's how I ended up with Yankee, whose AKC registered name was R.G.'s Pay the Piper--which I thought of all by myself (Pretty creative for a little kid, eh?)
Yankee practically house-trained himself, which was pretty amazing since he and his littermates were never inside a house; the breeders didn't believe in keeping their dogs penned up, so they had the run of the farm with a heated garage in which to sleep. He was calm, but eager to please, so his obedience training was easy. He didn't bark; actually, he couldn't bark, just made a half-growling sound in his throat. He spent most of his time quietly lying by my mother's feet or lying on my bed. At night, he slept under the covers beside me, sprawled out on his back with his head on a pillow. No one who'd been around the usual high-strung Cockers could believe what a great dog he was.
He was also very protective of me; I'll never forget the day I was home alone and had Yankee out on the porch with me. I think I was 14 or 15 at the time. A strange man walked into our yard and started talking to me. Yankee decided he didn't like him and chased him halfway down our street. I laughed myself silly as I watched him coming back, trotting proudly with his stub of a tail wagging like crazy. He was SO proud of himself... and so was I.
I moved out of my parents' home when I was nineteen and my mother refused to let me take Yankee with me. She--the woman who swore she didn't have any use for animals and complained about Yankee's being constantly under her feet--refused to let me take him with me because he would be alone all day while I was at school and my boyfriend was at work. Looking back, it does make sense, but I still think she was just didn't want him to leave. He had kept her company for many years and I was the last chick to leave the nest, so I didn't argue too much.
Soon after I left home, we got the bad news: Yankee was suffering from congestive heart failure, ironically the same thing that killed my paternal grandmother a few years later. Our vet, who is just fabulous, did his best to make him comfortable with medication, but nothing worked. My mother and I were absolutely heartbroken to know that our time with him was going to be cut short. Yankee wasn't even 10 years old at the time.
The last time I took him to see Dr. K, I asked if he thought Yankee was in a lot of pain. He said he didn't believe so, but that Yankee would probably hold on until someone told him it was okay for him to go. I mulled that over for a few days and, when Mom told me Yankee had lost control of his bladder and his muscles didn't seem to be functioning correctly, I knew the time had come. I went to my parents' house, sat on the kitchen floor beside Yankee's bed, and had a heart-to-heart discussion with him. I thanked him for all the good times we'd had together, told him how much I loved him, and that I knew he wanted to stay and watch over us. I remember saying, "If you need to go, we understand." I spent about a half hour, just petting him & talking nonsense to him, crying my eyes out the whole time, before I had to leave. About an hour later, I got the call from my mother, telling me that just after I'd left, Yankee started hemorrhaging and was rushed to the vet to be put to sleep.My parents' house seems empty without him, even now. But, sometimes, if I'm ill, I will feel him lying on the end of my bed, warming my feet just as he always did when I was sick. I also dream about him a lot. And my mother, who doesn't believe in "supernatural" phenomenon of any kind, has told me she occasionally hears the click of his toenails as he walks across the kitchen floor. So, while he's not physically present anymore, it is comforting to know that he's still with us, vigilant and loving as ever.
