Domesticated Animals and Fur Babies

I am a doggy person who has never written a doggy poem. Today’s post, therefore, rests on photos and snippets about the dogs in my life. Humans have always lived with animals. I remember learning as an undergraduate that African herders love their cattle. Although the size of a herd signifies wealth, men name and know every beast intimately by its markings. Throughout history, people have cohabited with or domesticated goats, chickens, camels, birds of prey, and more. As city dwellers, we now live in the era of fur babies and experience dogs (and cats) as part of the family.

The cost of keeping a pet in food and health has risen proportionately to the degree we anthropomorphise them. We may no longer safely chuck the dog a lamb chop or chicken bone from our plates. They have dietary requirements. We can’t get away with flea collars from Coles. Instead, we pay substantial monthly amounts to protect our pets from fleas, worms, ticks, and other parasites. Like our children, pets get regular inoculation against disease. They sleep with us. We buy specialised cleaning equipment to rid our homes of fur, and good councils provide free plastic bags so we can scoop their poop. Stepping in dog poo is an almost forgotten experience.

First Loves

Even the friendliest dogs bite. I grew up without pets. We lived in hotels and moved a lot. When I was ten, I fell in love with my best friend’s Cocker Spaniel. One day, I tried to hug him with all my yearning, and he snapped and bit my face. I had 13 stitches, and although the scar got lost in wrinkles over time, my right cheek sagged slightly after that. The emotional damage was a fear of dogs that persisted for many years, with one or two exceptions.

We had a greyhound in Albury. Well, Dad, a gambling man, had a greyhound, and for the life of me today, I cannot recall his name, although I remember vividly how soft his silver-grey fur was to the touch. He was a gentle creature with pleading eyes, and I hated muzzling him for walks. I felt for him when he was chasing the electronic hare and wished he had a better life. He used to look after Petty-Pie, our hen who was so clucky she happily laid on old golf balls. What sad creatures they were. After laying an egg one day, Petty Pie finally had a single chicken, and my infant brother, bless his soul, loved it to death. We were a needy pair, all right.

Mum’s Dog

Jump years to Oodnadatta, where Mum and Dad had the Transcontinental Hotel for over a decade. A station owner gave Mum a puppy, a little ball of white, a Bull Terrier-Blue Heeler cross she named after the giver. I was charged with his care. He slept in my room and went everywhere with me until I fled the nest at 19 to live in Darwin. He was a happy, gentle soul and a damn fine watchdog.

I should mention that I also had a pet budgerigar in Oodnadatta. He had a cage, but we let him loose when we were in the kitchen, playing cards or games like Monopoly, Scrabble and Dominoes. He loved to sit on the lip of a glass of beer and often got drunk — awful animal husbandry on our part.

You may notice that my early life had a paucity of pets. They were not then considered essential to well-being as they are today. Nor were they officially considered sentient or to have feelings like us. It is one of life’s cruelties that my generation was raised long before the lessons of interconnection and the Gaia principle came to the fore, believing humans were a superior species, not part of the animal kingdom.

Doomed Creatures

My first dog as a married woman was a Silky Terrier. We lived in Glenelg then and bought it for my mother as a gift. She didn’t want it. Warnings about buying pets for others were yet to be on the radar. That dear little puppy ran under the front wheel of the garbage truck in front of our house as my husband, children, and I watched on helplessly. It was devastating.

I must add that our piglet died in the same house. My husband brought that tiny creature home one day after rescuing him from a truck to the abattoir. What a dear little poppity he was, but so small, so frail and as always, I had no idea how to look after it properly. 

That house was doomed. My marriage broke up there as well, and I left it soon after with my kids.

The Kid’s Dog and Cat.

In our new home, sans father and husband, I felt my children should have a dog and a cat. We got Melly first, a little poodle-bitser from the RSPCA in Lonsdale. His mother was dumped when she was about to burst with puppies. We met her when she was pregnant and selected our puppy as a newborn. We visited him every week until it was time to take him home. That was a special time. The cat came later, and the first thing it did as a kitten was destroy our Christmas tree. We called her Christmas.

It broke my children’s hearts that we had to let Melly and Christmas go to a new family — our neighbour — when I needed to take them to Sri Lanka, where I undertook 18 months of fieldwork in a tropical world of drums, myth and ritual. Life was different for us all after that.

Half a Life Later

When I was young, I thought of myself as a cat person. I loved their independence. In my late 50s, while living in Darwin, I began to yearn for the companionship of a dog, something to lean on and love me. Once back in Adelaide, I hiked back and forth between two pet shops at Marion Shopping Centre, one at the Myers end, the other near Woolworths, trying to decide whether to go with a Scottie or a little Maltese-Poodle. I chose the latter because of his non-allergenic woolly coat.

Just as I had no idea how to look after a newborn baby — my three children are lucky indeed to have survived — I had no idea how to look after the tiny little puppy that he was. Soon enough, he was riddled with fleas. What an awful admission, but I took the vet’s advice and began to look after him properly after that initial scare.

Poor Lolo came into my life in Adelaide. I invented the name as a twist on Lulu, which my father called me when I was young, but the ‘l’ and ‘o’ were in memory of my brother whose star sign was Leo. One day, a derelict fellow on Wrigley Park asked what I called my dog, and when I told him, he got angry. How dare I call him ‘low’? Later, I discovered that Lolo is a Dutch girl’s name.

Lolo in the Territory

After an out-of-work stint in Adelaide, my lovely routine with Lolo got pushed out of shape. A job came up in Katherine in the Northern Territory. The move meant I had to put him in kennels for several weeks while he was still very young. He was such a darling, and I missed him, but he was excited to see me when I finally got him back. In Katherine, we lived in a furnished domestic garage during the week and spent weekends in my flat in Fannie Bay. Lolo and I became roadies, driving between the two towns twice or sometimes three times a week when I had to visit the head office.

Our next stop was the beginning of retirement — on a Disability Pension — in Melbourne, where the clever little fellow learned to go down two flights of stairs to do his business and return without me going with him. Lolo died in Aldinga Beach.

Along Came Clarrie

With Lolo gone, I missed having a heartbeat in the house, so I set out to find a puppy. I’d decided on an Australian Terrier. I bought from a breeder this time and visited regularly until the pup was ready to leave his mother. All my mistakes with pets over the years made me a far better dog owner, and Clarrie was spoiled, but he was an independent little soul. Still, I thought of him as my pussy-dog because he did love to snuggle. I called him Clarrie after CJ Dennis or Clarence James (Michael Stanislaus) Dennis, whose poems my father recited to me when I was little.

Clarrie died last year, but he had a long life, albeit only the first half with me. After I moved into a retirement unit where pets are banned, he spent the second half with my dear friends Rowan and Tina, who loved him as their own. I knew I could visit him any time, but that was painful at first. Still, we met up from time to time till the end, and Clarrie always seemed to remember me.

In Retirement

Nowadays, I get lots of love watching passing dogs on fine days when I can sit in Moseley Square and pat those who come close. I also have my daughter’s dog, Obi, who is always pleased to see me when I visit, or he comes to me. Her other fur baby, Paisley, is no longer with us, but she knew Clarrie well. They were puppies together, and I loved her to bits. Obi still misses his companion.

Being old licences me to take pleasure from a distance in the parade of dogs (and other creatures) that find their way to my Instagram. Ugly dogs, clever dogs, old dogs and puppies and before and after videos of animals brought back from near death. It seems trivial, but these photos and their sharing bring joy. Some are a bit over the top, puffed-up poodles and the like, but hey, it is reassuring to know the whole world is as enamoured of dogs, koalas, pandas, sloths and other animals as I am.

A Final Word

Love others unconditionally, as your fur babies love you. And, be kind. We can never give enough love and kindness.

Happy Writing

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