When I was growing up in Bell Buckle, my parents let us have just about any kind of pet we wanted, whenever we wanted. At various times, we had horses, ponies, pigs, goats, cows, chickens, ducks, geese, rats, bunnies, a parrot, fish, a baby owl, a pigeon named Seymour, and at least two baby squirrels I can recall.
Although we live in the city, I have tried to generally have the same policy with my kids. For a few years, I also did dog rescue, where I would foster puppies and unwanted dogs of various breeds until homes could be found.
But with this mostly open door policy for pets, we have had a few misfires over the years - pets that just, uhhh, didn’t work out.
The first ones that come to mind are the miniature goats I insisted we bring home a few years ago. My idea was that they would be cute, cool pets (I love goats) that would also keep our securely fenced lawn mowed. It seemed like a grand idea to me, although my husband wasn’t so sure. It turns out he was right.
The goats did not mow the lawn. They instead mowed the nice shrubbery, ate the deck and picnic table, and terrorized any small children who came into the yard.
Back to the farm they went.
A few years before that, my children’s grandmother agreed to get H. a baby potbellied pig, which he decided he really wanted after visiting a petting zoo. I had known some pigs growing up, and liked them a lot. The potbellied pigs we knew as pets seemed very nice. So we brought home the piglet, whom H. inexplicably christened “Ring Pop.”
Well, although Ring Pop was undeniably adorable, he was also possibly the worst tempered beast I’ve ever encountered. I tried all my powers of persuasion to gentle that pig, but he was having none of it. He bit H. He bit me. He ran away shrieking at the sight of us. No amount of pig proofing could keep him in our yard, and he would get out and run around the nieghborhood. Once he jumped in our next door neighbor’s pool.
Suffice it to say, Ring Pop didn’t work out. He now lives on a farm in South Knoxville. Or I guess he does. This was 11 years ago.
Last Christmas, Santa brought J. a ferret. She really actually wanted a kitten, but in his infinite wisdom, Santa must have decided that a ferret was a better idea. It turns out Santa doesn’t always know best.
Jon and I were initially psyched by the ferret. He was so, so cute. There is just not much cuter than a ferret. But while J. liked him well enough, she never did take to him like she would have the kitten she had actually requested. And it turns out that unless you clean a ferret’s cage very, very thoroughly, like, twice a day, they smell in a way that really doesn’t work well in a house also inhabited by humans.
J. is a very busy child. She has school, and she rides horses competitively, and of course, there is her social life to attend to. Constant cleaning up after and playing with a ferret didn’t fit into her schedule well. Or, actually, at all.
Jon and I took to sighing and looking at each other guiltily whenever we realized it was time to clean the ferret cage, or give the ferret playtime (had to be in a ferret-proofed area) . I felt guilty each time I walked in our front door and got a whiff of ferret. I knew he needed far more attention than he was getting, and he definitely needed his cage cleaned…again.
After family discussion, J. agreed that the ferret needed a home where he would get more attention and care. We found someone who was thrilled to adopt him and is giving him all that we weren’t.
I don’t feel good about these pet misfires; in fact, I feel pretty crummy about them. Sometimes I think that if I’d tried harder with that pig, we might have eventually bonded or at least reached detente.
