My animals are my friends. My first inclination was not to call them companions, not all of them anyway, but with the exception of my (mean-by-nature) gamecock, I guess they are also companions. The cats and I socialize in the house, the dogs and I go places in the truck, the geese and goats follow me around as I work outside, the horses and I have chats when I visit them at the stable. Even the donkey, who usually appears aloof and indifferent, will from time to time wander over to see what I'm doing and we'll engage in a social exchange.
My animals are also my family. Not because I view them as my "children," but rather because they constitute my immediate personal context. I care a great deal about them, and I take care of them. I feel a great sense of obligation to my animals. For example, I'm much more conscientious about their physical health than I am about my own. And, I worry a lot about my animals -- I worry if they appear anything less than totally happy and healthy. When I've gone out of town for a few days, I've sorely missed my animals after a day or two, and I begin worrying about them, even though I always hire a very responsible friend to take care of them in my absence. I fear that they won't be taken care of if something happens to me; this has led to much anxiety. In an attempt to insure their well-being, I've provided for my animals in my will.
I grew up on a Midwestern farm. There were always animals around. But my attachment to and love for animals must come from something deeper than mere exposure. My brothers don't dislike animals, but they don't connect with them as I do. Moreover, my mother has told me that my first word was either "cow" or "Bob" (she couldn't remember which). She said I would stare out the living room window at the cows in the pasture when I was a baby. Bob was our dog.
I simply love animals, in general. They're beautiful, fascinating, entertaining, and vulnerable. I have at least two bird feeders for the wild birds. In the warmer months I have at least two hummingbird feeders out. Last summer I was thrilled to see six hummingbirds hovering about one feeder; so many at one feeder is very rare. I was so excited about witnessing this event that I wrote to my dad about it (he has numerous bird feeders and expends considerable effort and money to insure the birds are well fed) -- and I think I manipulated a conversation or two so I could tell someone else about my rare sighting. I also keep a mineral block out for the deer. Almost all of my charitable donations go to animal-related causes. I watch animal-oriented programs on television, subscribe to animal-oriented magazines...and the list goes on. Animals, in one way or another, are so much a part of my life. But they're not "external" to me; rather, I feel some deep connection to animals in general. Maybe one way of explaining this relationship is that animals are largely the context of my life.
If it weren't for my animals (pets) I'd be living alone. I'm a loner but yet don't want to live totally independent of others. Animals provide the perfect compromise, in my opinion; they don't ask a lot from me, they don't "lay trips," they don't lie,... they don't suffer from human frailties.
Most of my animals have been rescued from uncertain fates. It makes me feel good about myself that I can help save some of god's creatures. I try to insure that my charges have a good, safe, happy life. I don't breed animals. There are too many, especially unwanted/discarded ones, as it is. My mother has said that as a child I was waif-like, so maybe I connect at some level with orphans in particular.
My animals comfort and console me.
They irritate and frustrate me.
They pester and accompany me.
They tease and challenge me.
My animals amuse and delight me.
My animals are an inseparable part of who I am -- not necessarily the particular configuration of animals I have presently, but rather animals in general. I cannot imagine myself without at least one animal; my identity seems complete with many animals.
I devote considerable time, energy, muscle, and money to taking care of my animals. I would have even more if I felt that I could dedicate sufficient time, effort, and money to their health and happiness.
My interaction with my animals is like interacting with children. I give them instructions, I explain things to them. I spend a lot of time either scolding or praising them. "Good boy," "pretty kitty," and "silly goose" are common comments.
The relationship I have with my animals is not especially unusual, in my opinion. Indeed, I don't think I'm quite so nutty as some pet owners whose pets do in fact serve as surrogate children -- you know, those people who dress their pets (usually dogs) in elaborate costumes and who refer to themselves in the 3rd person (often as "Mother") in the presence of their pets. I view my animals as animals and don't think they're anthropomorphs, even though I may talk to them in adult English. But that's the only language I know for verbal communication. I enjoy trying to communicate with them in ways they might understand, primarily through body language; that is, I try to enter their world rather than imposing mine on them. But the distinction becomes blurred with the animals with which (whom!) I spend the most time, my cats and dogs. I don't know whose world we live in ... or whether we've created our own.
My animals are my escape from a cluttered, screaming, complex world. They're my solace when all else isn't well. Their simple demands, their forgiving, nonjudgmental postures provide a stark contrast to the human behaviors I witness every day. They, in our rural setting, are my refuge. They instill peace of mind. They facilitate my spirituality.
Naturally, many other people think I'm a bit crazy, living alone in the woods with a bunch of animals, as I like to put it. But, whenever one deviates from well-established norms, that person is usually described in unflattering terms, so I don't care. We are responsible for building our own lives, finding the meaning and purpose, and reaching a sense of balance and peace. I'm doing that with animals.
I feel that humans and animals (and all other forms of life) are equally entitled to live on earth. I don't at all accept the premise that man does or should dominate animals, or "nature" in general. I do think humans have a (huge) responsibility towards -- i.e., caring about, preserving, and protecting -- animals, especially animals in the wild, because without the power of "higher-order" thinking, they are at such a disadvantage that for so many their very existence is threatened. Having said that, I confess to eating meat. I can't easily reconcile my convictions and my behavior!
Until recently, I've had to pay personal property tax on some of my animals, those classified by state law as livestock. I had a heated but friendly confrontation with the tax assessor about paying such tax. I argued that these animals are my pets and there is no pet tax; he claimed that the species determined whether they were classified as livestock. "Livestock" refers to animals raised for commercial or utilitarian reasons; it largely refers to food animals but also can imply work animals (such as horses). It is a very degrading, depersonalizing term when used to refer to my friends, however.
I like to indulge my animals. I shop a lot and carefully for them. I enjoy feeding them because they're always so eager and happy to be fed, so I often indulge them in treats. Carrots and apples for the horses and donkey. Wheat crackers for the goats. Lettuce for the geese. And toys for the dogs, toys for the cats.
My animals help keep me focused outside of myself. Their needs and demands are ongoing, so I can't take a day or two off, losing myself in joy, pain, or whatever.
I try to enter their world, to understand them. This allows me to play, act silly, talk nonsensically without someone ridiculing me -- much as young children cause adults to give themselves permission to become playful.
I love simply to watch my (or any) animals.
My animals are very dear to me. I feel best when I believe I've spared an animal's life or well-being.
I prefer to have a variety of animals. I like the novelty of atypical pets and learning about new species and breeds. Because a variety of animals displays diverse personalities, it's like having a variety of human friends. It makes life more interesting, if sometimes more challenging. Also, there's social value in owning something unusual or exotic; it piques people's curiosity and distinguishes me from the ordinary pet owner.
I find it very rewarding to work with, care for, socialize with my animals. I'm a tactile person, so I also enjoy stroking and petting and hugging my animals -- something I do a lot. But I don't kiss them on the lips!
My Geese (Mr. Goose and Silly One)
A pair of domestic geese showed up one day and essentially never left. Because they don't fly (they'll flap their wings to aid in scurrying across the ground), it's a real mystery where they came from. They had to walk here from somewhere.
I'd never had geese before, hadn't even really been around them. I liked the novelty of adding geese to my menagerie.
The donkey mortally wounded the female. I found her injured, with the gander standing beside her mournfully crying. Without moving her any more than necessary, I tried pouring hydrogen peroxide in her wounds, then I wrapped her in a towel and took her to a nearby emergency vet clinic. But nothing could be done. It was too late, she was fatally injured. I cried profusely. Tears still well up thinking about her. I felt so guilty because I hadn't somehow prevented her demise. I could have intervened had I paid closer attention to what the donkey was doing. Now if the geese and the donkey are allowed out of their pens at the same time, I closely supervise them.
The gander was so lonely. He wandered around crying, crying late into the night. I ached. I was so sad.
Through a classified ad I located two goslings more-or-less the same breed as the gander. I drove over four hours and spent $12 to get a mate for Mr. Goose. He immediately assumed parenting responsibilities for Silly One and Silly Too. ("You're a silly one ... and you're silly too" = origin of their names. "Mr. Goose" reflects my feminist tendencies; instead of calling him Mr. Gander, I reversed the practice of married women being Mrs. Somebody Else.)
The goslings grew up. They were very happy. Then one day Silly Too was gone. There were no signs of murder, injury, or capture by predators. It was spring, and I think she went off to find a mate. I was so sad that she had disappeared, without a trace, without a word. But, I try, within limits, to let my animals find their own "homeostasis."
Silly One is a delight. She's very playful. She follows me, nips at loose clothing or shoestrings. She demands attention. She's quite vocal -- too noisy at times, squawking whenever people are present. She is gregarious and has a sense of humor. How do I know? Well, she will nip at my pant leg, and when I look at her she jumps back and laughs. I know that she nips at me to get a reaction. She'll continue to tease for just about as long as I'm willing to be her victim. I enjoy spending time with her, she always causes me to smile or laugh.
Mr. Goose is also very vocal but generally more cautious than Silly One. I can't really interact only with him, as he's always with Silly and she takes charge of all interactions with others!
My Donkey (Ike)
I've experienced the full range of emotions because of Ike. I had never had a donkey before, had never even been around one. Expecting a donkey to be like a horse, I was in for some big surprises. As I like to say, they don't call 'em asses for nothing!
I bought Ike mostly for the novelty. He didn't cost a lot of money; in fact, the people from whom I bought him really needed money so I felt good when I could get a donkey and help somebody out at the same time. He and I "argued" for months, or maybe it was years, about who was in charge. I think he's finally conceded that I am or, at least, that I'm empowered by virtue of controlling the supply of hay, feed, and treats. But still, he gets very assertive from time to time. Not letting me approach him, kicking at me, nipping at me, laying his long ears back and looking at me in a threatening manner, running wildly around the yard. But most of the time he's relatively compliant. He and the goats hang out together. I notice that he'll tease the goats, just as he sometimes seems to tease me. He's ornery. I hear that most donkeys are. But he's smart, smarter than a horse.
I enjoy having Ike around. He's a bit of a pest. He also causes me great concern and anxiety because occasionally he'll have a fit and run wildly around the yard, chasing anything and everything in sight. He could easily kill another animal because he could outrun and then pin his victim down, possibly pawing that animal to death. That's not because he's mean, it's because that's what donkeys do. He mortally wounded a goose of mine; I was so angry with him. I hated him and considered selling him. But as I shared my sad story with others, I realized I was not entirely blaming Ike for the goose's demise. As I expressed to my cathartic friends, in my mind he wasn't guilty of first-degree murder but rather of involuntary manslaughter. Then I had to accept my responsibility in the goose's death; I had been negligent in allowing the donkey and geese to run together without supervision. Now two years after the event, I still feel very guilty about what happened; it was my fault, not Ike's. That is, he's now completely off the hook!
Ike's funny-looking, mostly because of his long ears and odd proportions. Other people are very curious about him and eager to pet him. I like the attention he -- and, therefore, I -- get. People like to have their photo taken with him. I have taken lots of pictures of him and have sent his photo into the local paper for their monthly feature of pet pictures. I had a photo of Ike made into a Christmas card one year, just for laughs.
He can be very cute. When my neighbor's two horses got through the fence and came over to visit, Ike was very excited. However, the (much larger) horses wanted nothing to do with such a silly looking creature so they royally snubbed him. His feelings were hurt. I could readily tell by the look on his face and the way he hung his head. He saw me and walked several hundred feet over to me for a hug. I know when he wants a hug because he stands next to me with his head down and neck next to my arm.
He amuses me. He often brays loudly when he sees me -- even through the kitchen window in the morning. When he's not in his pen but allowed to run free in the yard, he sometimes comes to the steps to the front door and yells (brays) at me, presumably for food or a treat ... or maybe a hug.
My Goats (Maggie and Honey)
I have two African pygmy goats. Their names are Magnolia Blossom ("Maggie") and Honeysuckle ("Honey"), which I thought sounded like good names for Georgia goats.
I bought them because I wanted pygmy or dwarf goats, mostly because of the novelty.
I'd heard that goats make good pets, although pet goats were rare when I was a kid on the farm in Indiana. But goats seem to be more of a Southern thing. They're used as food animals (especially for barbecue), sometimes as dairy animals, for weed and brush control, and occasionally as pets.
Unbeknownst to me, African pygmy goats are perennially young, or at least they act that way. The head-butting, running, pronging, spinning in midair, running and jumping sideways. Plus the more typical goat behavior: climbing and jumping on anything accessible. On my car, for example. They ruined the paint on my car, and on my truck. They've scratched the windshields by jumping or running from hood to roof and back to hood. They've eaten all my shrubbery, one student's homework, and a set of advertising slicks that were to have been submitted along with the final manuscript to a journal. But I don't really care. I find it all rather amusing; they act so silly.
One thing I find amusing -- that is, ha-ha funny as well as philosophically intriguing -- is their occupying "people space." Actually, everyone seems to be amused when atypical pets occupy human space. It's okay (socially acceptable, in our culture) to have cats and dogs in the house, but not "livestock" or "wild animals." My little goats hate getting wet so when they're not confined to their pen but are allowed to run in what-other-people-would-consider my yard and it begins raining, they race to the front porch for cover. Maggie usually jumps in the porch swing, and Honey gets in the glider and looks through the living room window (often it appears that she's watching television through the window). If the rain continues for a long time, I put hay and a bucket of water on the porch for them. They've slept many a night on the porch because of rain. Occasionally one of them gets into the house. They've learned that the front door is not always tightly shut and sometimes if they butt the door it will open. So, every once in awhile I'll have a goat meandering through the living room into the kitchen. I think it's funny; many people are appalled at such trespassing. But I see the arbitrariness of the way we humans define space, especially as to who "owns" it.
They're immensely entertaining. They can always make me laugh.
My Pony (Butt)
I have had a love-hate relationship with Butt, so nicknamed because of his behavior. His name is really Butterscotch Sundae. His name was Butterscotch when I bought him, but he's marked such that he reminds me of vanilla ice cream with butterscotch topping. He's technically a pony at 14 hands (1 hand = 4 inches, measured at the shoulder) and looks like a pony; so I thought "Butterscotch Sundae" was the quintessential name for him.
I shopped around for a new horse a couple of years ago; I had a good idea of what I wanted, with fairly well-defined decision criteria. I wanted a horse that would be used mostly for pleasure riding but potentially would be suitable for competing in local horse shows. Butt fit most of those criteria, but I really bought him because he was irresistibly cute, ignoring the fact that he was known to be intractable at times. He tends to be a bully -- I think because he's insecure. I'm pretty sure he was handled very roughly when he was young and he fears that he will be punished or hurt. Therefore, he's easily spooked, tends to move much too strongly, prefers fast to slow. He is getting better, however. A trainer and I have been working with him, when time permits, to build his confidence through more sensitive, more humane handling.
The story of my life: I fall for the really cute guy, even when I know he's not right for me!
But, his personality when he's not being bull-headed is cute, endearing. He charms women through flirtatious, oh-please-pay-attention-to-me behavior. He recognizes my truck when I start down the driveway toward his pasture. He waits at the gate for a snack and attention. If my dog, Dog, is in the back of the truck -- and when he's in the back of the truck he's almost always barking with joy, Butt notices us before we even reach the driveway. His head and then his ears go up. And he heads for the gate to meet us.
He teases, he's mischievous. He's impish. He has the expressions of an 8-year-old adorable kid who's accustomed to being the center of attention and learned that no matter the transgression, he's usually quickly forgiven. Catch Butt doing something bad, like nipping at a sleeve, and he has an undeniable "who me?" look on his face. Wanting attention sans scolding, he pushes his nose into my face or hand and looks at me with soulful eyes. I'm a pushover for this behavior in an animal, but usually not in humans! Everyone thinks Butt is cute, which helps assuage some of my frustration with his behavior, which is so much like that of an adolescent boy.
Butt has thrown me, he has given me much grief in general. Not long after I got him I asked my trainer to try to sell him -- but only to someone who could safely handle him and who would provide him a very good home. Because of his bull-headedness, I was afraid that he might (again) be mishandled and/or punished; I certainly didn't want that on my conscience! The right buyer didn't come along, and now I don't want to part with him. I love having a brightly colored, attention-getting horse, the first such horse I've ever owned. I love having a cute horse, and I've come to really like him. He's not mean, he's not bad; I'm pretty sure that his problems were caused by humans -- that he was initially in the hands of a quick-results, domineering trainer, who tried to subdue him. But some of his behavior is just pony behavior, it's who he is!
My Horse (Delta)
Delta is officially "out to pasture." She's fully retired, living out her life in a small herd, outdoors, in as free a state as possible for a domesticated animal. I, and others, insure her well-being.
She's old and dilapidated. Many years of vigorous, concussive jumping have taken their toll on her front legs, in particular. She is pigeon-toed and can no longer fully straighten her legs. Her knees are very knobby, like those of some very old people. She's actually rather pathetic looking! Yet her face and eyes are expressive and her overall attitude is good. She's happy and content. Therefore, I feel okay about her.
I bought her several years ago, as a pleasure (vs. show/competition) horse. She was past her prime, but then so was I! But she was a good horse for re-entry into equine activities. (I'd not had a horse for several years as I had neither sufficient time nor money while working first on my Ph.D. then on promotion and tenure.) She was well-trained and was tractable most of the time. She loved to jump and enjoyed sight-seeing on trail rides. Except for cows. She's terribly afraid of cows. Especially Holsteins, the brightly marked black and white dairy cows. That has always amused me, because dairy cows are just about the least intimidating animals on earth.
She does not live at home; rather, she's boarded at a stable, where she's been even since I bought her several years ago. I thought about bringing her home to take care of her in her old age, but she's happy where she is, in a large pasture with a small herd of horses. She wouldn't have a large pasture or a herd at home, only a donkey companion. Also, there are people who live and work at the stable, and they can keep an eye on her. It's as though she's in a type of assisted living facility. I check on her regularly, feeding her supplementary "senior" equine food, grooming her, giving her treats (carrots, apples, even commercially prepared horse treats). I keep watch to make sure that her needs are being met, that she's comfortable and happy. During the winter or any other time she requires extra care, I hire someone to attend to her, if I can't. I guess it's very much like taking care of an elderly parent.
I have an obligation to take care of her. That's the implicit agreement one makes when acquiring an animal. Besides, she was fun, and we spent a lot of good times together. She's earned her retirement.
I dread the day someone will find her dead or that I'll have to make the tough decision to have her put down because she's no longer able to enjoy life (we'll be able to tell by her body language, especially her eyes).
As much as I've enjoyed Delta, she has never been my buddy, as my childhood pony was. I've always viewed Delta as having more or less a specific purpose in my life -- i.e., for horseback riding. I guess she's never been quite so integrated into my life as most of my other animals. That might in part be a function of her not living at home.
