Pet stories

Lately, there have been a lot of requests for pet acquisition in our house. Max seems to think that what we really need is a dog ("That's a perfect idea, Bubbi!"), or a cat ("Because they run up into trees and I like to climb trees!").

And this weekend, he decided that since he wasn't getting anywhere with a purchased pet, he might try capturing one of his own.

So last night he tried bringing us the most gigantic, gruesome, slimy and disgusting slug. Like this:


And it left the most frightening slime on his hands that could not be removed by water, soap, scrubbing brush, or even denatured alcohol. It wasn't until after a frantic call to a friend and a google search that I found our solution was in the pantry = salt. So Max got a salt scrub and a lecture that slugs are not pets. And mom and dad had a glass of wine and tried to forget that we ever saw anything that gross touching our beautiful child.

But then today, Max found a roly poly bug, somewhat like this:

And he named it "Storm" and he carried it around and talked to it for a long time. And then Storm told him that he missed his Mommy and Daddy and so Max took him home.

And then Max erupted into tears. Mr. Wonderful, who anticipated a gaping flesh wound, came rushing to our child's aid, only to find him inconsolable and unintelligible through all the tears. Finally, he calmed him enough to learn that the tears were the result of missing his pet, Storm.

"Honey, this one's your department!", he yelled across the garden to me and sent a tearful Max my way.

And little Max rocked on my lap decorated in dirt, and told me that he missed his pet and that he wanted him to come back. And finally after he was calmed down and doing much better, he suggested that tomorrow we go to the pet store and get him a pet of his own.

He ruled out the cat and the dog, knowing that wasn't going to go anywhere. But then he suggested a goldfish.

Okay, we can talk about this one. A small fish. A small fish in a small bowl. A small fish in a small bowl that will probably die.

Because, as a mom, I have to think things through to their obvious conclusions.

And I must also back track here and share an incident from earlier this spring while visiting the in-law's farm, where upon Max discovered a wheeled excavator! An excavator at Grandpa's farm that held Max mesmerized and in awe that he could possibly be related to a human being that could see and touch an excavator on a daily basis!

Grandpa explained to all of us as we stood in the field admiring the gigantic gold machinery, in a voice as matter-of-fact as if he told us about going to the store to buy a loaf of bread, that the excavator belonged to so-and-so and was only there because he'd had to borrow it to bury a mule.

And then he continued on, as if he were well past re-telling the bread buying story and was now listing the ingredients or explaining how to actually bake one's own bread, while the rest of us were left contemplating the reason for the excavator.

"Why'd you bury the mule, Grandpa?"

Max asked innocently and full of preschool perplexity.

And no answer.

"GRANDPA! Why'd you bury the mule?"

Again, no answer.

Grandpa -- who was deep in conversation well beyond the ownership of the excavator -- ultimately got interrupted by Mr. Wonderful who nudged his dad with a wry grin,

"Your grandson's asking you a question, Dad."

And again, in the cutest little four-year-old voice ever,

"Why did you bury the mule, Grandpa?"

And Grandpa answered, not in a mean way, but in a very exaggerated matter-of-fact way, "Because he DIED."

Great.

Just leave it right out there.

And move on.

And so it was left to me in the truck ride back to the farm, in the car ride back to our house, in the many nights that followed as I tucked my little boys into bed,

"Why did Grandpa bury the mule?", or "We have to go back to Grandpa's and dig up the mule."

And so far I've managed to agree that the mule needs to be dug up, or that the mule is in heaven with the rest of his team, or "Oh look, a fire truck!" and we move on.

But now the fish.

Because we all know the inevitability of fish ownership, and today we witnessed the fragility.

And while I want to honor and celebrate my son's blooming love of animals and friendships and all that is so special about having a pet, I also must remember "Where the Red Fern Grows" and I have to ask myself if we're really ready for all that.

Because clearly, if we were that traumatized by a roly poly bug rolling away, are we really ready to see a floater?

So in the context of getting a pet, we talked about responsibility and care, and that pets may die. And he kind of tried to weasel around it and it became very clear that he didn't really understand death (hello, he's four!), and so I tried to paint him the picture that we could get a fish but that someday we'd have to bury it.

Bracing for tears, or perhaps denial, I was reminded again of just whom I am attempting to parent...

"Great idea, Mom! I can dig the hole with my shovel that Grandpa Tom got me!"

And he danced away, happy to know that he would not only be getting a fish, but also be digging a hole.