Pre-Feline Anxiety

Ferret bandannas. I saw a site selling ferret bandannas yesterday and found myself too-long pondering the deep need we humans have to take a creature that is mostly neck and accessorize it.

I feel like ferret bandannas are only one step from snake ponchos and giraffe mufflers. Sure, it's a niche market. But it's also not like without one, your animal bud will feel insecure and unloved while reading her subscription of Ferretista Monthly.

But I didn't actually come to talk about ferret bandannas today. I came to talk about the reason I was even on a site with the odd and assorted ferret bandanna.

See, I'm planning to get my first non-finned pet.

And what I've learned about myself is this. It is just as well that I have no children. Because if I were planning this, I would be researching parenting skills so long, the battery on my biological clock would have completely corroded.

While I love both cats and dogs, I've opted for a cat due to time and maintenance issues. But with the amount of "For Dummies" books I've attained on the matter, and the amount of questions I've asked my cat-owning friends, you would think I was prepping to manage the Lion's Den at the Pittsburgh Zoo or something.

I'm not sure what it is that I'm so worried about. That if I don't train the cat properly, it'll start slipping out behind my back, with a gang of graffiti-spraying tomcats?

That she'll fail all her classes in Scratching, Shedding, and Turning Up Her Nose at Off-Brand Catfoods, and then never get into a good college?

That she'll grab the keys, steal the car, head to L.A. and try to make it big in Fancy Feast ads?

Hard to say. It's possible that I am drawing too much on the sad demise of the only pet I had growing up-- Copper, the psychologically-damaged carnival fish.

Copper had a rough life at the carnie, as part of a game where ping pong balls were thrown into his bowl. It was post-traumatic stress, I think. Weeks after he came home with me to a ping-pong-free environment, he still flinched every time someone would enter the room.

I'm still not convinced he didn't die of a coronary. He was very high strung. But it also might have been my fault. Too many fish flakes perhaps. I might have killed him with foody flakey love.

Now I do recognize I'm not likely to come home to find my cat doing the backstroke like Copper. But you never know. I don't have a lot of previous pet experience. An unsupervised catnip addiction, she goes like Heath Ledger. A slip of the wrong kibble and she could be doing a Mama Cass. I don't think I could handle the guilt. That's why I want to make sure I have all the info I need.

I will promise you this, though. I won't be blogging regularly about my cat. There are enough cat pictures on the internet to satiate a million happy hoarders.

And I won't be buying the cat a bandanna, either. See, I hear they already come complete with a fur coat.

And really, when you're wearing fur, too many accessories just make you look cheap.

Copper, the Psychologically-Damaged Carnival Fish

Black, impending doom. I looked at the water-filled plastic baggy in my hands and suddenly saw my future. The Grim Reaper would be approaching soon, dispensing swift justice in the form of the scythe-sharp tongue of one very angry mom.

I peered at the small golden prisoner in the bag, who flinched-- as if sensing my terror straight through the plastic film-- and glugged at my magnified eyes with fear and wonder.

It seemed impossible to believe that just two hours before, I had been so happy, so carefree! Strolling the annual fireman's carnival fund-raiser with a friend...

Reveling in the neon colors as amusement rides twisted and spun...

Surrounded by the buzzes and dings and cheers at the gaming midway.

I hadn't even planned to do it. Tossing that ping-pong ball into the goldfish bowl had been the last thing on my mind. I'd raised enough allowance money for my entrance ticket-- maybe a bag of cotton candy.

But then my friend Sarah's mom and aunt stopped. And Sarah, too. And in seconds they had placed their quarters on the counter and gathered their little white spheres. And one by one, they took their chances...

A miss!-- Too much wind.

Another miss!-- A mis-calculation.

And then a third toss and....

A hole in one!

The piscine prize was poured into a baggie and handed to Sarah who grinned and poked at her new pal.

Then Sarah's mom nudged me. Three white ping-pong balls had been set up for me.

"Oh, I can't," I said, unsure whether it was because I'd already glimpsed my demise at home, or simply because my over-hand was terrible.

"Go ahead."

And maybe it was the warm lights shimmering off that fish-bowl tower...

Maybe it was the heady smell of popcorn and spun sugar and funnel cake that skewed my better judgment...

Maybe I was just swept up in the thrill of competition. Or maybe... maybe... I just wanted to see if I could.

But I picked up those balls. And tossed them. And in a fluky twist of fate... the second one went in.

As the attendant handed the bagged up fish to me, triumph lifted my spirits. It was almost impossible to believe. I had won. And of all things-- my first pet!

And then depression crashed down like a Warner Brothers anvil. Winning was fleeting, but death would be eternal.

We had a No Pets Rule at my house.

And rules, with my mother, were not just guidelines. When you're an only child with parents who truly mean business, it's not like there are exactly a lot of distractions to smooth things over when you try to test the ol' boundaries. It's not like you can hide behind some brother or sister and hope they'll take the heat.

I mean, if something goes wrong, oh, it's you. It's always you. So, you learn pretty quickly to suck it up and face the consequences.

And it's not like your parents exactly have any barometer for what misbehavior is, either. There's no first-born to shift the bell-curve in your favor with weekend raves and missed curfews and green hair. No youngest to set a standard of broken knicknacks, smuggled stray puppies and tense teacher conferences.

Nope-- small things tend to get... magnified.... and treated accordingly. With consequences like groundings, and no TV and no phone and, why, Mom had a talent for Not-Talking to me for days.

I think now she may have been Amish. She was really good at spurts of strategic shunning.

Of course, the No Pets Rule was also there because Mom didn't want to have to maintain some finned or furry friend herself. And in all honestly, that's likely what might have happened.

So to flagrantly ignore the rule and come home with carp-in-a-bag? Well... anyone could see that this would not be pretty.

Sarah's mom must have realized it right about the time I did.

I don't know what Sarah's mom told my mother, but I could see the porch-side conversation from a safe distance on the sidewalk. There was gesturing, low voices, and then... Sarah's mom motioned me forward.

I recall apologizing the second I stepped in the door. I had a nice speech prepared to explain how I'd gotten swept up in the moment of Chance and Competition and Fish Fate.

But Mom just got me a water pitcher and said the fish could stay there for the night. And that was how Copper came to be a part of the family.

----

Copper was neurotic. Because of weeks of having ping-pong balls tossed at her, Copper would flinch and retreat any time a shadow passed over her bowl.

We realized this about four days into my being a Fish Owner.

The good news was, the fish's unexpected nervous condition seemed to have won my mother over-- something I certainly hadn't seen coming that night my life had flashed before my eyes.

Mom peered at the shimmering little creature with a sympathetic frown. "She's scared of everything," Mom said, and after a pause added, "Maybe she just needs some company."

Subscribing to the Only Child theory, that made a whole lot of sense to me.

So, enter Goldie-- from J.J. Newberry's five-and-dime. Goldie was frilled and self-confident, and made herself at home in what was now a bigger tank. Goldie had no time for fish filled with self-pity and twisted with bad nerves. She swam. She enjoyed her gleaming reflection in the glass. She did a little turn on the catwalk.

And pretty soon Copper came to see what all the fuss was about.

A week into it, Copper was swimming around, too. No longer retreating every time someone would step into the dining room. Or turn on the lights. Or cough.

It was a happy time under the sea for them. A happy time for me, too. I'd come home from school and, okay, so maybe they didn't greet me at the door, but there were logistical reasons for that. I, at least, decided they were glad to see me as they'd blow bubbles and follow my trailing finger.

And then one morning, I came downstairs to breakfast. "Oop! Gotta feed Goldie and Copper," I exclaimed, getting up from my eggs.

"Er... no..." said my mother solemnly.

"No?" Had mom already fed them? Because, this, I thought would mean she'd really taken to the little fellows.

But when I went into the dining room, Goldie and Copper weren't swimming.... and they weren't admiring their sleek, shiny reflections. They were doing the backstroke in their tank.

Something to do with their last change of water had done them in.

Well, we put them in a baggy-- oh, how things do come full-circle sometimes!-- and said a teary goodbye with the Monday trash pick-up.

Copper seemed to enjoy those fleeting few weeks, at least.

And after all, what's it all about if you spend life trembling at the bottom of the tank-- and you forget what's it's like to really swim?

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A special thanks to Kathy of The Junk Drawer for reminding me of my first pet story.
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