Of Fins and Fur
Catherine Jacobson - May 7th, 2014
Boss.
As a small child, being the youngest sibling, I always got bossed around. I would let others control my actions. I feared noncompliance. Appropriately the name of a three and a half foot tall Rottweiler was Boss. He belonged to long time family friends. My family would go to their house once a month when I was kid. My sister and I interacted with their many pets roaming around the property, while the adults consumed various alcoholic drinks while playing cards.
At the age of only two and a half, I was sitting cross-legged on a filthy tribal patterned rug wearing my mom’s favorite footy pajamas in the center of the living room. The adults were scattered around the house, cleaning up supper, pulling the cards and chips out, and grabbing the beer. It was dark outside, but sunset must have just ended, since it was still before my toddler bedtime. I was playing with a puzzle that a two year old would most likely choke on instead of solve. All of a sudden I hear a loud WOOF come from the nearby hallway. There was Boss, standing with twice my height, glaring at me. It’s often said that kids have extra senses to connect with the supernatural and animals. I can’t explain how, but somewhere in my two-and-a-half year-old mind, I knew, absolutely certain, that Boss… wanted… to kill me.
I remember the complete focus his dark pupils had on only me. I still see those eyes in my nightmares. Terror shivered through my bones as I slowly stood up. I knew that I was going to need a head start. He barked again and then proceeded to chase after me. I ran to the only place a child believes to be utterly safe, my mother. My two-year-old self was shrieking, “Mommy, mommy, help! Boss is going to eat me up!” Jumping onto her lap would only bring my flesh closer to the height of his drooling mouth. So I decided to run under the kitchen table since I didn’t need to duck because of my miniature height. Boss didn’t slow down though; he continued full speed.
As anyone can imagine, he caught up with me. I screamed while simultaneously bursting into tears as his dental sharp teeth chowed down on my boney arm. The following moments are a blur, I don’t know how, but the adults saved me. The next thing I knew my mom was holding me, as she examined my forearm underneath completely torn PJs. To my parents’ relief, Boss didn’t even break the skin. He still mentally scarred me though. To this day any dog taller than my patella terrifies the shit out of me. Our family friends had to put Boss down. It turns out I wasn’t the only victim of his curious craving for humans. This exemplifies my bossed around behavior as a child. Whether it was a dog, my older sister, or a next-door neighbor, I always followed others’ anticipations of me.
***
Cheddar.
As a youngling I’d win door prizes and/or drawings. I often rolled doubles playing family Christmas dice games. I was just a lucky kid. Well you know those fish that every elementary school second grader has in their science classroom? And then at the end of the unit they auction them off as pets because they are expected to die in two weeks? Yeah, well I was a lucky winner of a cute little orange goldfish. They put him in store brand Tupperware container for me to bring home. I remember my bus driver strictly telling me, “don’t drop that fish now! I don’t need to be cleanin’ up its guts.” My mother was less than delighted to hear that I actually won a fish, although she did sign the parent consent form. I understand I was only in second grade, still Cheddar isn’t a clever name, at all. I still don’t know why I picked it. I didn’t even like cheese that much…. Nevertheless he needed a name.
Cheddar’s first home was a temporary big glass bowl. To my surprise, my “boyfriend’s” mom brought over fish food and this awesome tank that same night. The fish tank had plastic rock formations in it with holes that a small fish like Cheddar could swim through. It also had a scuba diver and treasure chest. Cheddar loved it! He became so much livelier swimming around in there than the glass bowl. Unfortunately he did have to return to the bowl whenever I was responsible for cleaning the tank.
That was always a process. My mom told me I had to clean his tank because he was my fish, not the family’s fish, and not my dad’s fish. We had this little fish net/strainer that I had to chase him around with. I absolutely hated those two seconds that orange body squirmed and flopped in the net. Whenever I put him into the glass bowl, he became suddenly motionless. It was like Cheddar had high priorities and only liked living in a sophisticated habitat. I mean, he was an Edina fish… So what can you expect?
I would watch him for hours, and talk to him whenever I felt lonely, which seemed to be pretty often for an elementary schooler. My favorite hobby was to observe his lips attack the nasty smelling food flakes. Sometimes he would miss one and I’d try to tell him, but he just didn’t understand.
Cheddar lived longer than any other auction fish. But one day in fifth grade, my sister barged into my room. I told her to get out, but she politely resisted. Elizabeth was being too nice to me, it was fishy. She then explained that something was wrong with Cheddar. Of course, being her always-gullible younger sister, I didn’t believe it. Soon enough I discovered Cheddar belly up in his tank. My parents told me I could bury him in the backyard, but I couldn’t handle that long of a funeral. So down the drain he went. Hesitation filled me when my little fingers pressed down on that all-to-familiar dirty handle. I cried, as fifth graders do. My sister typed up a certificate for “best goldfish” on the computer in a too-fancy-to-read font. I still have it in my memory box. No one ever expected Cheddar to live for three whole years. My mom told me I took good care of him, but I think I just got the lucky fish.
***
Tilly.
During spring break of my fifth grade year, our family decided to adopt a kitten. Actually my mom decided to get us one. My dad had no idea until the decision was already made. You can tell who wears the pants in that relationship.
My family plus, my sister’s friend, and a family friend all headed to The Humane Society. A female cat less than the age of one, was what my parents told the workers we were looking for. I followed my elder sister and her friend as they explored the options. We halted at this tiny gray and white kitten. This cat had the softest and most beautiful fur. It was long, but that’s what made it so soft and surreal. She possessed light grey fur all around her body except her tummy, paws, and lower face were snow white. A worker found us a small room. We all sat in there as this tiny kitten tried to hide in the corner. She was shy and scared, as anyone would be in that situation. I passed a bright colored ball toward her. She began to tap it with her delicate paws. The game became more engaging and soon the ball was being chased around the room. She was it. This was the kitten my family was going to make ours.
The name given to her by The Humane Society was Tilly. No one in my family fancied it, but we also couldn’t agree on one. So Tilly it was. They placed her in a long cardboard box with circle holes. During the car ride home Tilly stuck her paws and nose through the holes to try and figure out what was going on. She was very persistent so we opened the top a smidge for her to gain a better view. All of a sudden this kitten was not shy anymore. She took her first chance to hop out onto my fathers lap. Tilly got no more chances to escape her box for the rest of the 20-minute car ride.
Her curiosity only expanded when we exposed her to our home. My parents told us to not overwhelm her and keep the kitty in one room. Tilly seemed to have a different approach. That night she found her way across the house and on the second floor to my sister’s bedroom. I was jealous that Tilly didn’t want to see my room. My sister’s was messier, so I suppose there was more for her to explore.
This kitten seemed to already understand the concept of a litter box. She didn’t have any accidents until later in her life. My parents wanted a female cat so they wouldn’t have to deal with urinary track problems. Well, Tilly had them. She ate special food, to not get blocked up. Sometimes she would still pee or poop around the house. I felt bad because she was obviously sick, but my parents seemed to just get angry. Their lack of sympathy frustrated me. Especially because it became the death of her.
Besides Tilly’s waste problems she connected with our family very well. She was never a lap cat, but did like to be around people. If she thought no one was in the house she would start to cry by the front door. It was this high-pitched sound that expressed her loneliness. Then when you called her name and she realized someone was still home, she would make this half meow half purr sound while sprinting to your location.
Throughout the years I memorized her hot spots. If we needed to find Tilly, I was always called for. Under my parents queen sized bed, on the big blue armchair in the basement, on a dining room seat placed by the windows, upstairs either under my desk chair or on my round bowl chair. I would always pet her a few times before taking control of a sleepy body. Tilly liked to be held like a baby, belly up. If you placed her any other way, she would squirm and escape. Tilly did the strangest thing when I held her. She would reach her paw up and touch my face, either my cheek, nose or even right on my lips. At first this bothered me and I tried to condition her to stop, but eventually it became like our secret handshake.
Tilly’s playing consisted of body locking arms while nibbling all over the skin. It was hard to tell when Tilly was playing or just really pissed off. She hypothesized our confusion. Eventually Tilly would begin by biting hard, sometimes keeping hold of the flesh for a few seconds. Then she would start to bite less harshly, and finally if she were playing, she would lick the spot she had just chowed down on. As if saying, “I’m just playing, I don’t mean to hurt you.”
Tilly was there for me through my worst life experiences in middle and high school. She wasn’t afraid of water so I could bury my tears in her fur. Tilly was the best listener, and that’s not just because I could lock her in a room so I didn’t feel alone. Her curiosity about the unordinary never faded, so when I tore my room apart packing for college, she was right there. Tilly climbed into my suitcase, walked all around my snacks, and of course got her long fur all over my clean clothes. I was told she cried a lot more once I left. Apparently she also got really sick and weak. I wasn’t informed until my first weekend home when my parents told me they were putting her down on that Monday. I spent the next forty-eight hours shadowing Tilly around. I observed that her hot spots hadn’t changed. I could tell she was fatigued and ill. She barely bit my arm or ran about. Although Tilly’s paw still found my face when I held her. Before I left I squeezed that eight-year-old kitten one last time. It was hard to believe that that would be our final hug. Still, whenever I come home I expect a small gray and white kitty to be waiting for me at the front door. Unfortunately she never is. Being home doesn’t feel like the home I grew up in without Tilly’s presence. That’s probably the reason why I barely ever go “home”.
***
As a small child, being the youngest sibling, I always got bossed around. I would let others control my actions. I feared noncompliance. Appropriately the name of a three and a half foot tall Rottweiler was Boss. He belonged to long time family friends. My family would go to their house once a month when I was kid. My sister and I interacted with their many pets roaming around the property, while the adults consumed various alcoholic drinks while playing cards.
At the age of only two and a half, I was sitting cross-legged on a filthy tribal patterned rug wearing my mom’s favorite footy pajamas in the center of the living room. The adults were scattered around the house, cleaning up supper, pulling the cards and chips out, and grabbing the beer. It was dark outside, but sunset must have just ended, since it was still before my toddler bedtime. I was playing with a puzzle that a two year old would most likely choke on instead of solve. All of a sudden I hear a loud WOOF come from the nearby hallway. There was Boss, standing with twice my height, glaring at me. It’s often said that kids have extra senses to connect with the supernatural and animals. I can’t explain how, but somewhere in my two-and-a-half year-old mind, I knew, absolutely certain, that Boss… wanted… to kill me.
I remember the complete focus his dark pupils had on only me. I still see those eyes in my nightmares. Terror shivered through my bones as I slowly stood up. I knew that I was going to need a head start. He barked again and then proceeded to chase after me. I ran to the only place a child believes to be utterly safe, my mother. My two-year-old self was shrieking, “Mommy, mommy, help! Boss is going to eat me up!” Jumping onto her lap would only bring my flesh closer to the height of his drooling mouth. So I decided to run under the kitchen table since I didn’t need to duck because of my miniature height. Boss didn’t slow down though; he continued full speed.
As anyone can imagine, he caught up with me. I screamed while simultaneously bursting into tears as his dental sharp teeth chowed down on my boney arm. The following moments are a blur, I don’t know how, but the adults saved me. The next thing I knew my mom was holding me, as she examined my forearm underneath completely torn PJs. To my parents’ relief, Boss didn’t even break the skin. He still mentally scarred me though. To this day any dog taller than my patella terrifies the shit out of me. Our family friends had to put Boss down. It turns out I wasn’t the only victim of his curious craving for humans. This exemplifies my bossed around behavior as a child. Whether it was a dog, my older sister, or a next-door neighbor, I always followed others’ anticipations of me.
***
Cheddar.
As a youngling I’d win door prizes and/or drawings. I often rolled doubles playing family Christmas dice games. I was just a lucky kid. Well you know those fish that every elementary school second grader has in their science classroom? And then at the end of the unit they auction them off as pets because they are expected to die in two weeks? Yeah, well I was a lucky winner of a cute little orange goldfish. They put him in store brand Tupperware container for me to bring home. I remember my bus driver strictly telling me, “don’t drop that fish now! I don’t need to be cleanin’ up its guts.” My mother was less than delighted to hear that I actually won a fish, although she did sign the parent consent form. I understand I was only in second grade, still Cheddar isn’t a clever name, at all. I still don’t know why I picked it. I didn’t even like cheese that much…. Nevertheless he needed a name.
Cheddar’s first home was a temporary big glass bowl. To my surprise, my “boyfriend’s” mom brought over fish food and this awesome tank that same night. The fish tank had plastic rock formations in it with holes that a small fish like Cheddar could swim through. It also had a scuba diver and treasure chest. Cheddar loved it! He became so much livelier swimming around in there than the glass bowl. Unfortunately he did have to return to the bowl whenever I was responsible for cleaning the tank.
That was always a process. My mom told me I had to clean his tank because he was my fish, not the family’s fish, and not my dad’s fish. We had this little fish net/strainer that I had to chase him around with. I absolutely hated those two seconds that orange body squirmed and flopped in the net. Whenever I put him into the glass bowl, he became suddenly motionless. It was like Cheddar had high priorities and only liked living in a sophisticated habitat. I mean, he was an Edina fish… So what can you expect?
I would watch him for hours, and talk to him whenever I felt lonely, which seemed to be pretty often for an elementary schooler. My favorite hobby was to observe his lips attack the nasty smelling food flakes. Sometimes he would miss one and I’d try to tell him, but he just didn’t understand.
Cheddar lived longer than any other auction fish. But one day in fifth grade, my sister barged into my room. I told her to get out, but she politely resisted. Elizabeth was being too nice to me, it was fishy. She then explained that something was wrong with Cheddar. Of course, being her always-gullible younger sister, I didn’t believe it. Soon enough I discovered Cheddar belly up in his tank. My parents told me I could bury him in the backyard, but I couldn’t handle that long of a funeral. So down the drain he went. Hesitation filled me when my little fingers pressed down on that all-to-familiar dirty handle. I cried, as fifth graders do. My sister typed up a certificate for “best goldfish” on the computer in a too-fancy-to-read font. I still have it in my memory box. No one ever expected Cheddar to live for three whole years. My mom told me I took good care of him, but I think I just got the lucky fish.
***
Tilly.
During spring break of my fifth grade year, our family decided to adopt a kitten. Actually my mom decided to get us one. My dad had no idea until the decision was already made. You can tell who wears the pants in that relationship.
My family plus, my sister’s friend, and a family friend all headed to The Humane Society. A female cat less than the age of one, was what my parents told the workers we were looking for. I followed my elder sister and her friend as they explored the options. We halted at this tiny gray and white kitten. This cat had the softest and most beautiful fur. It was long, but that’s what made it so soft and surreal. She possessed light grey fur all around her body except her tummy, paws, and lower face were snow white. A worker found us a small room. We all sat in there as this tiny kitten tried to hide in the corner. She was shy and scared, as anyone would be in that situation. I passed a bright colored ball toward her. She began to tap it with her delicate paws. The game became more engaging and soon the ball was being chased around the room. She was it. This was the kitten my family was going to make ours.
The name given to her by The Humane Society was Tilly. No one in my family fancied it, but we also couldn’t agree on one. So Tilly it was. They placed her in a long cardboard box with circle holes. During the car ride home Tilly stuck her paws and nose through the holes to try and figure out what was going on. She was very persistent so we opened the top a smidge for her to gain a better view. All of a sudden this kitten was not shy anymore. She took her first chance to hop out onto my fathers lap. Tilly got no more chances to escape her box for the rest of the 20-minute car ride.
Her curiosity only expanded when we exposed her to our home. My parents told us to not overwhelm her and keep the kitty in one room. Tilly seemed to have a different approach. That night she found her way across the house and on the second floor to my sister’s bedroom. I was jealous that Tilly didn’t want to see my room. My sister’s was messier, so I suppose there was more for her to explore.
This kitten seemed to already understand the concept of a litter box. She didn’t have any accidents until later in her life. My parents wanted a female cat so they wouldn’t have to deal with urinary track problems. Well, Tilly had them. She ate special food, to not get blocked up. Sometimes she would still pee or poop around the house. I felt bad because she was obviously sick, but my parents seemed to just get angry. Their lack of sympathy frustrated me. Especially because it became the death of her.
Besides Tilly’s waste problems she connected with our family very well. She was never a lap cat, but did like to be around people. If she thought no one was in the house she would start to cry by the front door. It was this high-pitched sound that expressed her loneliness. Then when you called her name and she realized someone was still home, she would make this half meow half purr sound while sprinting to your location.
Throughout the years I memorized her hot spots. If we needed to find Tilly, I was always called for. Under my parents queen sized bed, on the big blue armchair in the basement, on a dining room seat placed by the windows, upstairs either under my desk chair or on my round bowl chair. I would always pet her a few times before taking control of a sleepy body. Tilly liked to be held like a baby, belly up. If you placed her any other way, she would squirm and escape. Tilly did the strangest thing when I held her. She would reach her paw up and touch my face, either my cheek, nose or even right on my lips. At first this bothered me and I tried to condition her to stop, but eventually it became like our secret handshake.
Tilly’s playing consisted of body locking arms while nibbling all over the skin. It was hard to tell when Tilly was playing or just really pissed off. She hypothesized our confusion. Eventually Tilly would begin by biting hard, sometimes keeping hold of the flesh for a few seconds. Then she would start to bite less harshly, and finally if she were playing, she would lick the spot she had just chowed down on. As if saying, “I’m just playing, I don’t mean to hurt you.”
Tilly was there for me through my worst life experiences in middle and high school. She wasn’t afraid of water so I could bury my tears in her fur. Tilly was the best listener, and that’s not just because I could lock her in a room so I didn’t feel alone. Her curiosity about the unordinary never faded, so when I tore my room apart packing for college, she was right there. Tilly climbed into my suitcase, walked all around my snacks, and of course got her long fur all over my clean clothes. I was told she cried a lot more once I left. Apparently she also got really sick and weak. I wasn’t informed until my first weekend home when my parents told me they were putting her down on that Monday. I spent the next forty-eight hours shadowing Tilly around. I observed that her hot spots hadn’t changed. I could tell she was fatigued and ill. She barely bit my arm or ran about. Although Tilly’s paw still found my face when I held her. Before I left I squeezed that eight-year-old kitten one last time. It was hard to believe that that would be our final hug. Still, whenever I come home I expect a small gray and white kitty to be waiting for me at the front door. Unfortunately she never is. Being home doesn’t feel like the home I grew up in without Tilly’s presence. That’s probably the reason why I barely ever go “home”.
***