We had a dog when I was small. A pedigree boxer we called Punch but whose ridiculous kennel club name was Punchenello Tillingdown. He was a beast of a dog with a head the size of an asteroid and crafted out of tungsten, a chest you did not so much as hug as circumnavigate and testicles the size of grapefruit that caused my mother rather a lot of embarrassment as people ohhed and ahhed when they caught sight of them. He was the last pedigree pet we shared. Since then a catwalk (ho ho) of felines and canines have passed my way, all a confection of breeds, all with their own personalities and foibles and all fully aware of their power to charm and corral to their bidding. And all mongrels and mixed breeds in need of a home.
I’ve learnt a little about my pet preferences on the way through. Fr’instance I won’t take cat siblings again. For me the charm of the cat is in its lap tendencies. Our current two are antipathetic towards the lap and that is a shame. They enjoy each other’s company too much. See, I am really selfish.
For dogs I like the medium sized version. Our boxer was a delightful family pet, if you ignored the slobber, but he took up a lot of space and was difficult to control given his strength. Whereas Dog is perfectly sized for all the family. I also would avoid a breed mix that enjoys water. Dog will do all he can to avoid getting out of his depth and that suits me just fine.
What I will continue to do is rescue them. Pure breeds just don’t interest me. There are reasons why we don’t allow close proximity breeding in humans yet we permit it in dogs (amongst others). It really does encourage weakness.
But I can’t really imagine a time without a pet. Even our much maligned tortoise has her charms.
Charli Mills has prompted us to a story involving a rescue animal.
June 10, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about an animal rescue. It can be a typical dog or cat rescue from the pound, or helping a critter less fortunate. Go where the prompt leads you.
A wing and a prayer.
‘It was an allergic reaction to the rose spray.’ Paul explained to the neighbours. ‘She needs rest.’
Mary sighed. People were kind but couldn’t they leave her alone? She could barely stand unaided just now; Paul set her up, with a blanket and a book and left her to enjoy the feeble sunshine.
Yesterday, she had watched the blue tits feeding their young. Today she noticed movement by the fox gloves. She shuffled to the flowerbed, feeling shaky. A small chick had fallen. It took all her strength to slip it into the nest. Would the little thing survive?
If you’d like to read the back story to Mary and her family, please click here.