My friend Scott Schwenk has been eagerly awaiting this post, and I couldn't understand why until I realized his interpretation of My First Pet had something to do with "third base." As in heavy petting. So for all of you with a mind as filthy as Scott's, my apologies. In his defense, it's actually not a strange assumption since most of my friends know I've always had a bit of a strained relationship with pets. Certainly more so than with petting.
I actually know a lot of pets, mostly dogs, although I wouldn't exactly say I'm all that close with any of them. I don't have any issues feeding them, walking them, or even picking up their poop. I just don't get a warm fuzzy feeling being around them, or when they lick my face.
There are a few exceptions to this rule, the first being Yoda, who has fresh minty breath, as she likes to brush her teeth. That is a plus for me as many dogs I know don't exactly have fresh breath. (Yes, Blingy, I am absolutely referring to you.) I tolerate Dollface, I'm on pretty good terms with Arnault, I tend to ignore Daisy when go over to Cyndi and Temple's. I did like Bowie, my friend Daniel Erdman's dog. He had one blue eye and one brown and was just a cool dog. Didn't try to befriend me or "show off" and I respect that. He's not with us anymore unfortunately.
Dusty & Dean
I should also fess up that I've been falsely enthusiastic about dogs more than once, if their owners were cute enough. "You have a beautiful dog," I said to a guy who got into a restored, metallic blue Chevy Nova, in a Staples parking lot. It was about ten or so years ago. Dean, the cute guy, became my boyfriend, and Dusty, his dog, would roll himself into a tight donut and warm my feet at night. Not bad at all.
But back to my personal pet issues. I'd be remiss if I didn't mention Kurt and Sune in this blog. Technically they were my first pets but they didn't really live long enough for me to develop a close relationship with them. Don't feel bad for me, it was all my fault. After the first couple of weeks of thinking they were fun and sweet, I stopped feeding them and giving them water, because it "took too much time." Kurt finally ate Sune and then died, shaking in the corner with blood on his little furry face.
I managed just fine without furry companions until one day in 1997. I lived on Hayworth, just below the Farmers Market and would sit and read in Pan Pacific Park, which is now behind the Grove. I was reading on a blanket in the sun one day when I saw a woman with a pet carrier. She proceeded to let an orange cat out of it, then she walked away, got into her car and drove off. A few of us saw it and nodded to each other, appalled. Then I shrugged and got back to my book.
As the sun was setting and people were starting to pack up, a lady came up to me and asked if I could take the cat in. I laughed and shook my head. She didn't leave. I guess she didn't see what was so funny. Before I had the chance to explain that I'm really not a pet person, she had pointed to every single person in the park and told me why they couldn't take the cat. Allergies, dogs, other cats...I guess I was the cat's last hope. Not great odds for the cat.
It irritated me that she said "we," as in "we can't really leave this cat here, can we?" There was no "we" in the park. Just people. Individual people. Strangers who shouldn't make each other feel bad. Except for, I had just taken a course at Landmark that was all about connecting to one's community, so with all the other park goers staring me down, I looked at the cat, got a slight twinge in my heart, and reluctantly said I'd take it.
I picked up some pet supplies and called my boyfriend at the time, Andrew, who came over somewhat excited. He explained the nuts and bolts of cat ownership to me and named the cat Otis, as he was deep into the Ken Burns series on Jazz at the time. Otis howled and meowed every night and bit my heels every morning after I got out of bed. And like an alcoholic parent, I told him how unappreciative he was, how I understood that woman dumping him in the park, and that I would take him back there if he didn't start to behave.
Otis, a true writer's cat
The only thing we shared was a love of all things salmon flavored, but other than that, we weren't connecting at all, although I gave him fresh water, a nice mix of dry food and Fancy Feast, treats, toys, and a fuzzy bed. I suppose I gave him everything but my heart and he knew it. He preferred Andrew's company to mine, and that irritated me, even though I understood it. One day, I opened the balcony and Otis jumped out. Came back happy an hour later. That's what he had tried to tell me with the howling and the biting; he wanted to go outside. From that day on, our relationship improved.
Otis and I moved into a little house on Huntley Drive with Andrew, where Otis got a fancy cat door leading out to a backyard, where he would stalk and sneak up on birds, butterflies and people. One day, he brought a dead bird into the house, and set it down right in front of my feet. He looked so proud, bloody whiskers and all. I didn't have the heart to scold him, but instead "oooh'd and aaaah'd" for a while over the bloody bird, giving him an extra treat. Not a great move on my part as it encouraged him to continue his killing spree. I think it was a rat the next time. I can't remember if it was Andrew or I, who sat him down and had the "we're proud of you but please don't bring dead things into the house anymore," talk.
I know a lot of pet owners say this about their pets, but Otis was more like a person than a cat. He preferred water out of a glass, and left the house every morning, returning in the early evening for dinner. Andrew and I used to joke that perhaps he had a job. I figured it out after a few times of running into various neighbors. I'd be approached by people asking me if I was Otis' Mom. They all had a funny story about what had happened with Otis that day, over at their house. Turns out he had families and friends up and down the street, his influence reaching as far as Santa Monica Blvd, where he had his own bowl of food at "The Gauntlet," a piercing/S&M store. Explained his sudden weight gain and flair for the kinky.
When Andrew and I split up, it made the most sense that Andrew and Otis stayed in the house, but after a few months, we switched and I found myself with Otis again. Fortunately, I had a room mate for a while, Phil, who took Andrew's place as "primary love giver" while I continued to provide the basic necessities; water, food and treats.
After Phil came Janet, and although I probably should have been jealous that everyone connected with Otis but me, I wasn't. I had recognized my own shortcomings in the "giving unconditional love to a pet" department, a long time ago. I had come to terms with it, and was content doing my part, while always ensuring Otis got the love he needed elsewhere, like a frigid wife, encouraging her husband to see prostitutes.
He would sleep with me on occasion, which meant a night struggling to fall asleep over his heavy purring, which was more like heavy, sleezy breathing with a super loud heart beat accompanying it. Andrew always said he made that sound because he had such a big heart, and years later, when his health started to fail, the vet said just that. He had an abnormally large heart. I said "I know" and my eyes filled with tears.
Otis, a few weeks before his untimely death
It was Otis' arrogance and general "King of Huntley" attitude that finally got the best of him. Otis thought he was still young, quick and fit, and crossed the street seconds before a car, like he always did. Of course, he wasn't young, quick or fit anymore and got hit. I wasn't around but got the call from Janet who was with him at the vet, getting ready to put him down as he was in a lot of pain.
It was sad, but anyone who knew Otis, knew he had a full, fun, and happy life with many friends. It wasn't until he was gone that I realized how much I had really loved him, in spite of our differences. I asked Andrew if he thought that Otis knew that I loved him. He said "definitely" and reminded me that it was I who had given him the full, fun and happy life he had lived. RIP Otis.
Marika....your otis story filled my heart with joy....love knowing you were sooooo mushy. Loving is a wonderful thing as i found out later in life...love, diane
Posted by: diane merrick | 03/23/2011 at 02:22 PM