Don't Fight It

When I was a child, we had an old orange tom cat named Rusty, an overweight and laid back black and tan daschund named Fritz, and a small boned boxer named Lady.  My mother cared for all three, taking on the responsibility with a resigned sigh and generally doing a better job with them than she did with her kids - they were far less demanding and rarely if ever talked back.


I've loved animals all my life, could never imagine a household without them and have never entirely trusted anyone who didn't feel the same. 


With the exception of the black dog (in a moment of unparalleled weakness, the urge for a second Schipperke overcame me and I gave in and paid actual money for her), all my little ones are cast offs - found dodging city traffic or living under houses or just born unwanted.  Whether they find me or I find them, they all share a common need for food, shelter, kindness and someone to love - not so very different, I think, from what we're all looking for.  I suppose some overpaid shrink could find a link to my childhood here and make a case for a child being raised by a resentful and unloving mother growing up with a need for unconditional love - but for me, it's much less complicated - I didn't have to learn love of animals, it's in my DNA as surely as brown eyes or small feet.  Be it a baby squirrel tumbled from its nest, a turtle at the side of the road, an orphaned bird in the backyard, or a stray cat or dog - if I had my way, I'd take the entire animal kingdom in (and there are those who would say I almost have).


No, no, no ....I told myself when I first saw Jessie, Butterbean, Zackary, Mischief, Murray, Muggs, Smudge, Maya and the Cat Who Still Lives in the Garage.  Think of the expense, think of the responsibility, think of the pet hair and the fleas, think of your own mental health.


And I did.
Each time.
Right before I said yes.
Again.


You can't dispute DNA or argue with your own heart.