An UnPETurbed Household

By Kathy Tirrell

You won’t find any pets in my house. (Unless you count the spiders that creep, crawl and drop down on us from time to time.)

But otherwise, no creatures dwell in my house. (Unless you count my husband when he’s paying the bills. Now that is a creature you DON’T want to cross paths with. Ever!)

So why no pets, you ask?  Well, to answer this question we shall have to travel back in time.

The place: Mom & Dad’s house
The time:  the late 60s
My parents reluctantly allowed us to have our first pet. He was a tiger cat we named Tycoon. (Coat like a tiger’s, tail like a raccoon’s) My mother didn’t like the idea of cat hair, fleas, and scratched furniture, so Tycoon was an outdoors cat for the most part.  Eventually Mom and Dad softened a bit and started allowing him inside.  All was well until that fateful day my mother caught him up on the kitchen table scarfing down her freshly baked salmon loaf.  You never saw a cat fly through the air so fast!  My mother chased him off with a broom (and some choice four-letter words) and that cat raced out the back door and was never seen again!

The place: Mom & Dad’s house
The time:  the early 70s
A neighbor came to our door bearing a basket of kittens. Oh so cute, who could resist? We picked a little gray one and named him Dusty. Or at least we thought it was a him.  Yup, right up until the time Dusty went missing.  Now where could he be?  Though he was an indoor cat, we couldn’t find him in any of his usual spots. Until one day when my dad was down in his workshop and heard some very faint meowing. Investigating further, he peered down into a deep box filled with blankets and discovered Dusty lying there with her new little kittens. When my sisters and I heard the news, we were delighted! My parents were not. So one day while we were all at school, they shipped Dusty and company off to the SPCA.  And that’s all I have to say about that.

The place: Mom & Dad’s house
The time:  the mid-70s
Next up was Carrots, the cat.  Orange in color, my mom thought the name very appropriate. This cat was allowed to run amok in our house.  He was a well-loved, healthy pet until that fateful day my dad accidentally backed his car out of the garage over Carrot’s tail.   The poor kitty had to be rushed to the animal hospital for surgery. My mother put the charges on her credit card since Carrots had neglected to buy health insurance.  The brave little guy survived the surgery but lived the rest of his life without a tail.  He looked a little odd, but he managed just fine.

Still, going through all this emotional turmoil taught me what a huge responsibility it is to be a pet owner. I don’t feel qualified for the job, but I applaud those who do it and do it well.

Now, excuse me, I’m hearing some high-pitched noises.  I think the bill-paying creature got out of his cage.

Kathy Tirrell shares more of her musings on It Bloggles theMind.


  1. Well, with responsibility comes benefits. I never have food on my floor anymore. My dog works better and faster than any hoover. My friend was complaining that her kid spilled a box of nerds on the floor and for the past week she's been finding nerds all over the house. I told her there would be no nerds if it happened at my house. Not one nerd anywhere...only turds.

  2. Interesting. I guess there are some benefits!


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