Initially, there were no pets allowed. This made some measure of sense considering you had an inordinate amount of people tucked into giant human containers, each producing their own refuse, noise and contention. Keeping animals would only add to that exponentially. The pet ban was above all for sanity and safety. After all, if you could afford an incidental pet then your finances should be well enough that you should move somewhere one could find grass on the ground, instead of in baggies.
However, there was something about the big-box domiciles that made folks ignore the ban and begin to keep bestial family members -- of the four legged kind, not necessarily of the recently paroled variety. Surely, it was lonely inside that concrete cave. Dangerous in the labyrinthine network of hollow obelisks named after some proud American most tenants never heard of. One can see how a person would naturally desire the company and comfort of a furry friend.
So everyone adopted a dog that would become the very symbol of urban blight -- the lovable Pit Bull.
It was then I'd fallen in love with the Pit Bull Terrier -- a slightly different breed than the mastiffs. The Spudz/Target dog kind. Even my uncle, who lived in the same complex had a dog. This one was a Collie from Texas that wanted no part of the population of ghetto hounds. Since my uncle had dogs, as did a good percentage of our neighbors, perhaps there was an opening to recruit a companion for my latch-key days. There was no way my mom could ignore my appeal for a pet. She agreed.
Soon after we went to the pet store and bought my first… fish. The idea was that the fish would be self contained in his tank. A dog would have been too much work, too much responsibility. My mom was big on things that didn't need constant attention. Well, anyone who has owned fish knows it's an incredible amount of maintenance for barely more than a living piece of artwork. It would turn out as expected.
When the fish didn't work out, she offered to 'upgrade' to hamster. Her rationale was still the same. The hamster would always be where he could be found, and his crap would fall through a grating into a tray below. At least with a hamster I figured he was a tactile pet. I'd wanted the proximity and touch of another living creature. All the ones in my human HabiTrail were so disappointingly unavailable.
Mom then though the hamster might be lonely and needed a companion. In effect, taking away my own companion by purchasing a mate for the vacant eyed rodent. Clearly, I don't even remember his name so there was hardly an emotional attachment. In all fairness, I do still remember my mom's name. Doing as they do on the Discovery Channel, the little buggers started… y'know. Quickly the HabiTrail turned into a table sized mini-tenement. It was like convicts, keeping pets inside cages, inside their cells.
(photo via Geekologie)
Now, this was a far cry from the pet frog, Cokie, that I kept as an adult. (A coqui is an indigenous Puertorican frog.) Cokie was a rescue from a classroom project and the first animal who ate other live animals. It was fascinating to watch him stuff a cricket the proportional size of a double stuffed 5 Dollar Foot Long into his gullet.
My mom later on went to keep birds as pets. These budgies were served the same sentence. They never leave their cage, for fear of escape through a window or door, so they'll never know about their ability to soar. Beside their aesthetic beauty, the sit in their box by a window screaming at the assault of noise outside. Three little birds singing far from sweet songs of melodies loud and obnoxious, drowned out by honking horns, roaring voices and a 5.1 stereo blasting HGTV.
But this journal isn't about dogs, fish, hamsters, frogs or birds. It's about cats. The only species of pet that I'd never really asked for, and never really took to. No. I didn't much like cats. Little did I know that they would later come to change my life.
