Toto and her kind

The way we got our pet dog was that one day I traded a flimsy pair of binoculars for a squirrel from a kid who it was rumored had a metal plate in his head. Word around the neighborhood was that the plate kept his skull from shrinking and squeezing his brain to death. As it turned out the squirrel was not his to trade. He didn't own it. That night the mother of the actual owner called our house to ask for the critter back. By chance the woman happened to know my mother, both of them were nurses and traveled in the same circles. Her family's dog had just given birth and she offered us the pick of the litter for return of the squirrel. (Months later while over their house we would dine on frog legs that were wrapped up in tinfoil and cooked on a grill. And, I'm here to tell you, frog tastes like chicken.)

On the night of the phone call we went over to the squirrel owner's house and picked out a black pup from the litter of mutts that were part Black Lab, possibly German Shepherd, and breeds unknown. My sister who was enamored with the Wizard of Oz got the honor of naming the pup. Thus the family pooch was christened Toto. She was a friendly and dutiful pet who as she grew came when called, heeled when ordered, and sat up when asked. She was much beloved and accompanied us on family vacations at Hampton Beach, and my father and her would go for early morning surf side runs before the arrival of bathers or dog barring officials. By the time she reached her middle years however she was a bit neurotic. She had to be sedated when left alone in the cottage. One afternoon while under the influence of her calming dose she ate her way through the front screen door and came looking for us. When she found us she bayed in unbridled joy and wagged her tail with her whole body.

During the time we got Toto I also had a pet turtle the size of a half-dollar. I kept him in a cardboard piggy-bank that was a replica of a McDonald's. It sat atop my clothes-chest and I rarely paid him any mind. One afternoon when I put him on the floor to mosey around a bit I found he was dead. It was my first encounter with death and I felt sick at heart that he had died. It was all my fault. I'd neglected him. When I told my mother what had happened she suggested a funeral at sea by way of the bathroom toilet. I flushed him down with a sad goodbye. I think his name was Sammy.

We had a parakeet for a spell around the time I was eleven. He chirpped and sang continuously. One time my father took him out of the cage and had the bird on his finger an inch away from his mouth. In what would later become family lore my father opened his mouth to the parakeet. Without warning the bird lunged into my father's mouth and headed for the depths of his throat. We watched dumbfounded as our gagging father grabbed the disappearing bird by its tail-feathers and yanked the would be avian spelunker free from reaching his esophagus and points beyond. Not too long after that we had the bird out of the cage and as we watched it walk around on the floor our family cat Smokey pounced on him and killed the parakeet before we could react. The birdcage went down into the basement and we were bird-less for evermore.

As Toto aged into the autumn of her years my father and her developed a special bond. My father who worked third shift would share the morning and early noon hours with her. She with the constantly wagging tail of delight at moments of attention rubbed up against my father's leg and was rewarded with pets and pats on her chest. In mutual affection they passed the hours together.

Over the years we also had our share of cats but not one that followed was viewed as fondly as our first cat Smokey. He could do no wrong. Later would come Morgan, Munchkin, and a small host of others. One was a stray that didn't last long enough to merit a name. He had an unlovable disposition and stayed in the basement pissing and stinking up a storm. We were quickly rid of him. Our next door neighbors a childless couple in their upper sixties who kept their lawn as pristine as a putting green fell in love with Morgan. They had a special chair for him and they fed him canned tuna and had up on their living room wall a picture of him. They were struck particularly low at his eventual passing.

Around the time I reached my cynical an uncharitable latter teens Toto could no longer control her bowels. I can see it clearly her running through the living room heading for the back door with her tail tuck up underneath her and a look on her face of utter shame as she voided against her will. In response I took up a cry, put her to sleep. A short time later in the face of the inevitable my father took Toto to the vet and held her cradled in his arms as the vet administered the lethal injection. When my father returned he stood at the kitchen window and looked out upon the back yard where Toto had played and scampered about. And my father stoic though he was broke down in tears.

Toto's demise was in its way a demarcation point for our family. My siblings and I were soon to venture forth and we had outgrown the need for a family pet to care for and rally around. We had by then concerns and visions and plans for life beyond the family home. And they did not in all their manifestations include a tag along animal, not even one that was dearly beloved.