It was at a birthday dinner for my older sister. As I was serving the roast one of the cats coughed up a huge hairball. This is not a big deal in our family since we have always had cats and dogs: We’ve been cleaning up after pets for decades, and it would take more than a hairball to phase this group. But then, out of the blue, my younger brother asked my older sister, “If you could only have one of our childhood pets in heaven which one would it be?” In any normal family, it would have been a totally innocent question, forgotten in minutes. My family is not normal.
There was a shocked silence and my sister said, “I can only have one?” “Yep,” said my brother, “there’s a limit.” My older sister thought a moment before she said “Jacques” and all hell broke loose. “Jacques” was a miniature poodle with nighttime allergies who coughed and sneezed and sniffled and wheezed all night, every night, for years. “Not Lucas?” I demanded. Lucas was the Golden Retriever I had in high school.
My younger brother was appalled. “Lucas was a good dog,” he said, “but he used to throw up during thunder storms.” This was admittedly a problem in South Florida during the summer, but I stood firm. My younger brother said that Bruno was his choice, but my middle sister was aghast. “That was a worthless animal,” she said. ”Remember how Mom used to make me sit on the floor and make chewing noises so he would think I wanted his food or he wouldn’t eat ?” This was very true, but to Mom’s credit, it did work.
My middle sister felt the only possible choice for a companion in Paradise was her cat Pepperomia, but we all protested. Pepperomia would hide under the furniture until a pair, any pair, of bare feet walked by, at which point she would rush out, grab hold of your ankles with her claws, bite your toes until you bled and then run away again.
My older brother said that he was taking Rusty to heaven. Rusty was an Irish Setter with irritable bowel syndrome. When Rusty was gassy he could clear a room in seconds and his projectile diarrhea was legendary. My mother shot my older brother a withering look and said with finality that the only animal she deemed heaven-worthy was Hector, a neurotic Airedale who nearly electrocuted himself every December by lifting his leg on the lighted Christmas tree.
The discussion lasted through dinner and dessert as we debated the merits of Ellie, the lab who would steal food right off the dinner table versus Charlie, the retriever who could never tell if a sliding glass door was open or shut, versus Tommy, the huge, gray cat who for years confused the laundry basket with the litter box. The discussion got more heated as dinner went on.
These things develop a life of their own in our family, and in the following week there were multiple phone calls, emails and text messages. Eventually, people began to take sides and then, naturally, there was talk about not inviting certain siblings to Thanksgiving dinner: “He’s taking that worthless cat Ginger to heaven? Let him cook his own turkey.”
Pets have played too important a role in my family for us to be casual about them, and its amazing how many of our shared memories revolve around our pets. My younger brother started this mess, but he also finished it with one final text message: “Having only one pet would be hell.”
Amen, brother.