There seems to be an unwritten rule in our house that all pet responsibilities are mine. Let’s take dog poop, for example. My husband and daughter see the dog poop, they step over the dog poop, but somehow they can never manage to pick up the dog poop.
It’s the same way with all of our pets. First, there is our Wonder Mutt, a 50lb German shepherd/sheltie/mutt/oh-my-gosh-what-is-it who is simultaneously the most lovable and the dumbest dog in the world. In short, I love her. Well, we all love her, I’m just the one who who gets the honor of cleaning up after her every time she throws up behind the chair. My husband and daughter love petting her and throwing the ball for her and taking her for walks, but that poor dog would certainly go hungry everyday if it weren’t for me. Of course, my husband did feed her once back in 2010 which he still brags about to this day.
The next group of pets are the kind with too many legs that my daughter adopts via our backyard. It all started with caterpillars; my daughter was so excited to see those caterpillars turn into butterflies. She even made me show the caterpillars a time-lapse video on Youtube just to make sure the little guys were ready for the big change. My daughter watched half of the video then went outside to play. I sat there for the rest of it, trying my best to reassure the caterpillars that it couldn’t possibly be that gross in real life and saying encouraging things like, “A cocoon is just like a little vacation; I’d make one myself if I could.” I fed those butterflies orange slices and sugar water in an eye dropper until they were ready to fly away. My husband and daughter watched as I let the butterflies go, it was very beautiful until the dog jumped up and ate one and another hit the windshield of a passing car. Funny, none of that was in the video.
Our insect pets have also included, but are not limited to: an old Tupperware container of roly-polies that my daughter shoved in a drawer and I found a month later, a few lady bugs that were literally played with to death, and a dead beetle of some sort that my daughter insisted was just sleeping (that one “ran away” when my daughter wasn’t looking shortly after his arrival in my kitchen. My daughter said, “See, I told you he was just sleeping!”).
Then we have fish; lots of fish. Usually goldfish or sometimes bettas—we stick with the ultra-flushable varieties. It’s always the same story with fish: my daughter insists she needs a fish and that she will take care of it, then it’s all on me. I actually like the fish but I have had some bad experiences with them. Once, I was poised over the toilet and ready to flush my daughter’s fish, Sally, when the darn thing started swimming again. I could have sworn it was dead. The next time it died, I waited an extra day just to make sure. It wasn’t moving this time and I’m almost positive it didn’t have a pulse, so I finally felt at ease about her burial.
There was also the time my daughter’s fish, Rhoda Flower Haas (she was very into formal names at the time) died and my daughter didn’t notice for close to four weeks. When she finally noticed, she insisted that she needed another fish. I drew a hard line. “No, if you don’t notice a pet has been dead for four weeks you lose all rights to obtain another a pet of that same species.” My hard line lasted for almost two months, then we got a new fish, simply named Clucky.
I don’t mind being the caretaker for all these creatures and I guess I can’t really blame my husband and daughter for their inability to feed and care for the pets since neither one of them has mastered obtaining food for themselves yet.