Seems like
most people I know have their favorite pet memories. Some of them tender, some
funny. Mine are scarce. In my life, I’ve owned a total of two hamsters and one
plastic-bag, carnival prize fish. Granted, I liked these animals, but to them I
was nothing more than that scary, ominous creature that provided food.
If you are
one of the few like me with very few pet moments and this in any way sounds
familiar, here’s one of my strongest pet memories:
-----
“Holy crap,
the bird’s dead!” my brother, Mike, exclaimed.
A
second later Mom snapped, “Watch your mouth!”
“But
Mom… Grandma’s bird is dead.”
We
examined the cage propped up on top of the bookcase housing our Funk &
Wagnalls encyclopedias. Sure enough, one dead bird. Our grandparents asked us
to do one simple task and we flunked it. Mike and I turned to each other. He
had a mirrored look of defeat. Once Dad found out we killed his mother’s
favorite bird, that’d seal the deal for sure. We’d never get a pet of our own.
“Maybe…”
Mike started. “Maybe we can get Grandma a stuffed animal.”
“I
think she’d notice the difference,” I said. Two and half years older than me,
Mike held the medal for saying the dumbest things, an honor I had no intention
in taking.
Mom
sighed. “Well, one thing’s for sure. You can count on mowing her lawn for the
rest of the summer.”
“Yeah!”
Mike said. “Maybe we can find a new bird while we’re working outside.”
“Sure,”
I said. “I’ll bring the gun.”
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