Nouns and Verbs is myparismagazine.com's weekly challenge where we write about what specific words mean to us. Join in the fun via the comment section, telling us how or why these ordinary nouns and verbs are meaningful to you. This week we’re pondering the word PETS.
Lucy isn't just a family pet, she's a family member. I picked her out of a large litter of labrador pups almost eleven years ago. She was much like the lab in the movie "Marley and Me" for the first year, always getting into something she shouldn't and chewing everything in her path. I couldn't wait for the puppy phase to pass!
"Go" is her favorite word, sometimes I think it's what she lives for. She's ridden lots of miles in the back of a pick up with me at the wheel. It's not easy for her to get in and out of the bed of the truck anymore, so she's riding in the cab with me. I just roll down the windows and she hangs her head out the window and grins. It's a beautiful sight!
I love my Lucy girl. My daughter calls her "the best dog in the world"...I couldn't agree more!
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The word of the week, "pets", struck a chord, laying deep in my memories. Besides the hamsters, parakeets, and turtles I had as a kid, I had three dogs, that were each special. A bird dog named Elvis. A Saint Bernard named Joker. And a very special dog named Sally. While the first two played significant rolls in my growing up, I came of age with Sally. Saved from certain death, and nursed back to health, Sally was my companion. She had a heart as big as Tennessee, and a love for me that was just incredible. Sally went where I went. If she wasn't wanted there, then we left. I came out of Detroit, one year, to Paris for Christmas, and stayed at my sister's on Hidden Acres. She showed me my bedroom, then asked if I minded if Sally slept in the shop. I told her I didn't mind at all. Come bedtime Sally AND I went to the shop to sleep. Linda came out and asked 'what the heck are you doing'? I told her Sally and I were going to bed.She had a change of heart and Sally and I slept in the bedroom.
Sally was good protection for me in both Detroit and Washington D.C. She would ride up in the front seat and I was never messed with. She would obey voice commands just like she understood every word I said, including some that she didn't want to hear. Like 'O.K., Sally, let's take a bath.' She hated baths and hated the word bath.
I had to put Sally down when she was 14. Up until that time, I think that that was one of the worst days of my life. Sally was almost blind, almost deaf, and had arthritis in her hind quarters. I was working in St. Louis and would come to Paris every other weekend. Sally would be so excited to hear my voice, would start running toward me and her rear would give out, and she would fall. When I saw that happen, I knew she had to be laid to rest. As much as I loved Sally, I couldn't stand the thought of something happening while I was gone and Jean having to deal with it.
It was a cold Saturday morning, and I got out early. Jean took a coupla' pictures of Sally and I. We went out to the pasture, and while Sally lay on the ground, watching, I dug her grave. Sally and I then took our last ride together....to the vet's office. He administered a drug that stopped her heart and started me crying. The crying lasted all morning and lasted into the afternoon and included Jean. I had never lost anyone close to me before so it was like I was burying a child.
Sally taught me a lot of life's lessons. I still miss her.
“Buuurrrlll, buuurrrlll” … a sound similar to a kitten’s purring… that’s what I used to call Mulberry to me. That was the name of my pet raccoon, found as a kit in a Mulberry tree, of course. Raising a wild animal can take some effort. But for a boy of twelve, it was more fun than work. And, as the saying goes, she never bit the hand that fed her. On the other hand, she did take a nip at my father a time or two. But, then again, if you know my dad, he probably deserved it.
Anytime someone entered the room where Mulberry happened to be playing, she would freeze as if caught in the middle of some sort of mischievous “act”. Once she heard my purring, she relaxed and ran to me, crawling up my body and resting herself on my shoulder. She was just one of the many “pets” I had growing up. There were also numerous squirrels, snakes, lizards, turtles and the odd praying mantis or two. But to a teen… ahhhh, what fun!
PETS, for me, conjures personal and intimate memories - thoughts specific to me and my family. All the dogs my parents either grudgingly tolerated or adored, the stray cats we fed and kept outside to hunt and play...
However, being back in Paris for the summer, "pets" reminds me of an altogether different experience, a memory shared by many Parisians.
I'm sure most of you remember a most unusual residence at the corner of Volunteer and Jim Adams Drive, inhabited by a beloved Paris citizen: a beagle mix known by several names, most commonly Rebel. As a student at Paris Elementary School at the time, Rebel was very dear to me. Every day my father drove me to school, and without fail, Rebel would run alongside our red truck for a few hundred yards, barking and howling all the while. He is a permanent fixture in my childhood memories of Paris, and though his eviction from that corner was painful, I'm sure we all remember the kindness and generosity of several Paris citizens, giving Rebel everything from food to his very own house.
It's experiences like this - collective memories - that make small towns unique, charming, and quaint, and Paris boasts tons of 'em!
Art Nellen - My pet story took place on an air base in England during WWII. In our barracks were 12 guys, one of whom adopted an Angora cat, Missy. She became our barracks pet.
The owner, Cy Hall, cared for his cat for months on end until, one day, we were told to pack up and ship out across the Channel for Belgium.
Most of our personal belongings would stay in the old Nissen hut. The Belgian mission was to be short term, but Missy would have to hold down the fort, so to speak, outside.
Upon our return, nearly four months later, we had no hopes of seeing Missy. But by the time we had begun unloading our Jeeps she was there, purring like a generator engine.
She had lived alone in the woods and she looked it. Did I mention Missy was a long haired cat? Did I mention her long, well groomed (pre Belgian trip) fur? What a matted, smelly mess, all held together with a variety of burrs, bugs and dried up sticky stuff.
But she had waited faithfully right there! And after a few weeks of feeding, brushing and combing, Missy again was in nearly pet show condition.
Who else has a pet story from WWII or others? I'd like to hear from other vets.
Lucy is our Golden Retriever and really doesn't know she is a dog. Lucy loves to ride but only if it is in the front seat and gets upset if you put her in the back seat. My kids gave her to me as the last one left for college in 2004 and named Lucy after my Mom who had died many years earlier....not sure grandma would have appreciated that but I'm sure she would have gotten a laugh out of it. Lucy was our #2 dog until our Lab passed away a month ago - he was our "Marley" in every aspect and his name was Shiloh and unfortunately he was widely known by name in our neighborhood. Lucy had been an inside dog until Shiloh's death and only wanted a hand on her head. After his death something changed and she took over all of his duties as guard dog, retriever and defender. She is by far the most intelligent dog we've ever owned is a huge part of our family.
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