My kids have had the privilege of getting to know a host of magical animals in their lifetime. There were our three dogs–Daisy, Bean, and Rosie; nine cats–Izzy, Blizzard, Boo, Bessie, Clarabelle, Milo, Max, Millie and Oliver; four Russian tortoises–Bonnie, Clyde, Boris and Natasha; two ferrets–Sid and Nancy; and fish in practically every room of our house. Some of them are still with us, and some of them are not.
Pets are an investment. In return for the time and money they cost, along with the messes, the heartbreak, and the inconvenience during our travels, each animal has brought my children a unique and valuable life lesson. Early on, they’ve each been instilled with kindness, empathy, patience, and responsibility.
I don’t do it all for me or my three. Mostly, I do it for my future grandchildren.
My six-year-old has a queen-sized bed. At first I wondered if it might be excessive. Last night, I tiptoed into her room after she was asleep and found the bed comprised 70% life-sized Olaf, 20% Beanie Boos, 9.5% stretched-out cat, and Anna, who was dangling like Wile E. Coyote from the edge of a cliff. Next stop: the California King.
While visiting a longtime friend last night, my friend reentered her apartment, clutching her little white dog’s leash with one hand, scratching her own head with the other.
“That’s weird,” she said. “He didn’t have to pee. He must have gone somewhere in the apartment.”
We surveyed her tiny apartment for puddles, but found nothing.
When it was time to leave, I gathered my things and grabbed my purse. A river of pee ran down the front of it and left a pool at my feet.
“Why don’t you just throw it out?” asked Doug the following morning as I woefully dunked my purse, its black leather worn and faded, into a bucket of Murphy’s oil. “You’ve had it for as long as we’ve been married.”
As long as we’ve been married, he said. Bah. That’s a mere thirteen years. What Doug didn’t realize is that purse was swinging from my shoulder way back when he was trying to convince Mr. Harvey he didn’t get stoned before his 8 a.m. class.
It was 1989, and I was at the West Farms Mall with another longtime friend, Antonella Calabrese. We were walking around with no destination or nothing in particular to buy, because we were sixteen, and we actually had time to do that. We passed by Wilson’s Leather when I spotted the purse in the window.
“Oooooh, I like that,” I commented, hair teased across my head like an oriental fan, the fringe on my black leather jacket and boots dancing with every step.
Hours later, on the way out of the mall, Antonella instructed, “Stay right here. I forgot something.”
Before I could respond, she dashed into Wilson’s and came out with my purse.
“I believe this is yours,” she said, and forked it over with a grin.
Antonella was always generous like that. Even before she became a big success and actually had anything to give, she still found a way to scrape together her waitress tips to bring smiles to the faces of people she loved. She never asked for anything in return. I think for her, the feeling she gets from giving has always been payment enough. You don’t meet a lot of people like that.
A near thirty years later, it’s still my favorite purse. Partially because I love the way leather feels when it’s soft and worn, and partially because it’s big enough to hold my kitchen sink (along with the microwave, refrigerator and a small toaster oven). And even as it prepares for retirement on my picnic table, slightly reeking of Murphy’s oil-scented dog urine, it’s still my favorite purse because it comes with that story—and along with it, a very important message about friendship.
Ant, I guess what I’m trying to say is…can I have a new purse?
Last weekend I rummaged through my parents’ attic, where I’d stored my classroom supplies during my three-year hiatus from teaching in Hartford. There I encountered five signs scribbled furiously on a series of whiteboards. The first one read, “I’m waiting.” The second: “Any time you’re ready.” The third: “Is this thing on?” The fourth: “My blood pressure right now: 160/80.” The fifth: “Every mouth in this room shuts NOW!”
Ah, another year of molding, inspiring and delighting those thirsty teenage minds.
