My dad had a dog named Missy when I was born, so there were always at least a few pets. My mom had been raised in a perfectly clean home, though my grandmother insists that my grandfather was the “no pets” person. She insists she always left it up to him. I remember my grandmother’s house as a place dust was afraid to stay, with plastic runners on the carpets in all the well-traveled areas - into the kitchen, down the main hallway. I guess it worked - her carpeting usually looked pristine.
This led to my mother and her sisters swearing they would let their children have pets. They did, to varying degrees, though, in old age, most of my aunts are now pet free again. I guess that, since I am only in my 50s, there is time to see if I will revert to pet free as I get older or always have them since I was raised that sharing your life with animals is part of life. When I lost Hank recently, I swore I would stick to only one dog, Ursula, and let her age off, too, then dwindle down to cats, which don’t need walks in inclement weather (though out in the country, my dogs have learned property boundaries with time and repetition, and usually they can be let out without much supervision by the time they hit adulthood). Now I see a young dog with no playmate, and she keeps trying to encourage the cats and chickens to play with her, but they find the idea of being bounded at by an 80-pound behemoth frightening no matter how she tries to frame the question. And I think… she really needs someone to play with…
Ursula, ironically, was really not planned. The third generation away from that sterile perfection is my children and my sister’s children, and we have kids who assume animals are always part of life. My sons have two dogs and a half dozen cats between them, and my niece, who I hold responsible for Ursula, is a veterinary nurse studying to be a veterinarian, working her way through college, who assists in spay and neuter clinics for various rescues. I am very proud of her. When she announced it was time to get me another Pyrenees, I tried to put it off, but… I am really bad at no.
Did I say I am very proud of my niece? She assisted with Ursula’s spay, then left the next morning to drive all day from Houston, Texas to central Missouri and bring me the puppy, to turn around and drive all the way back to Texas the next day so she could be back at work for Monday. Ursula is now two and followed the typical Pyrenees training trajectory - halfway interested in what I was trying to teach her, deliberately ignoring what I was trying to teach her, and obeying what she was taught when she feels like it with apologetic tail wags when she thinks she has better plans than my “suggestions.” It’s a Pyr thing. If you haven’t met a Pyr, you might not get it. Her first year she didn’t really shed like she has this year. Every time she sees me pick up a clump of fur (yes, I have shedded her for as long as she tolerated it, several times now) she gives me this guilty look and tail wag, and I laugh at her and tell her it isn’t a big deal.
Ursula is the last of three Great Pyrenees or mixes, starting with Merri, who will get some stories, then Princess, who also has her stories. I never planned to have a large dog living in my house. Before Merri, I had a strict 45 pounds or less limit to dogs I would adopt. I figured dogs much larger than that were just too big to have in the house with you, especially since I mostly lived in small houses. I was misled by the animal shelter with Merri, and she taught me that Great Pyrenees were not really that bad as indoor family members. Maybe Ursula needs another young Pyr…
I’m not good at having high expectations for my pets. I kind of figure they deserve to make their own choices as much as they can. In letting that kind of live and let live thing happen, I have been amazed to see animals acting in ways that attempt to communicate with me. Chickens, cats, dogs, horses… I have had them get my attention, take me to something, and then kind of look at me, look at the item, look at me… They know they can’t speak English, know I don’t speak THEIR language, and with this kind of pantomime, try to show me what they are trying to convey. This leads one to an unmistakable conclusion: animals are smart and communicate with each other. I have watched a horse play practical jokes. This requires planning, humor, an expectation of a reaction. This is not a dumb animal.
So this is kind of my opening - starting at where I am (and this is only one of the current ones - there’s Lombok, Monty, the chickens, the horses…) before we go into a history of animals who have some interesting adoption stories, and so many moments when they taught me how small my perspective really could be. I’m glad that you’re coming along for this. I’m sorry it has taken me awhile to get started.
So… stories are coming.