I have always been an animal lover. It doesn’t matter what animal, really, so I have seldom turned away a stray or an offer to adopt an unwanted pet.
The first pet I remember having was a white rabbit that some unthinking adult thought was a suitable Easter gift for a 3-year-old. I remember playing with it for a day before the poor thing was saved from my over-zealous overtures.
My first real pet at the age of 4 was a black, curly-haired cocker spaniel aptly named Curly. I loved her, and she put up with a great deal because of that love. I would dress her up like a baby and push her around in my doll carriage. She was very good about it, but after a while she would jump out—doll clothes, blanket and all—and would eventually be found and relieved of her unseemly attire.
The kitchen stove had legs that allowed just enough room for a small dog to take refuge. One time when I tried to pull her out, she promptly planted a tooth in my thumb. It didn’t bleed, but I learned to let sleeping dogs lie.
When my mother married Stanley Gurski and we moved to the farm in Brookfield, I left Curly behind, but I saw her often when I visited my grandmother.
The farm exposed me to many types of animals, some of which I liked and some not so much. We had chickens, pigs, cows, and horses, as well as numerous barn cats.
We also had two dogs. Goldie helped with the cows, herding them into the barn and out into the pasture following milking. In between milkings, Goldie kept my father company as he did other farm chores.
Daisy was the other dog. I adopted her early. I guess she was meant to be a guard dog, but she hardly met the requirements. A very sweet dog, she was often my companion as I wandered the woods and fields.
My favorite farm animals were two work horses. Prince could be snappish, but Chubby had a very sweet disposition. I sometimes sat in the feed box in his stall, petting him and feeding him sugar cubes and apple slices. One time when Uncle Frank gave my cousin Helen and me a ride on him, we went down to Merwin Brook, where Chubby attempted to follow Uncle Frank over the plank walkway. I guess he didn’t want to get his feet wet.
Though I loved the baby chicks, the adults were quite another story. On those times when I had to feed them, I threw the grain as far away from me as I could to avoid all those pecking beaks running toward me. Chickens could also be cranky when you tried to collect their eggs. I learned to collect from the empty nests first and hope the others would be minus the chickens when I returned.
Baby pigs were cute, but not so much when they grew up. They never did anything interesting but just ate and slept in their pen. Needless to say, they received very little attention from me.
All the cows had names. I liked the calves best. They were cute and enjoyed being petted. Though I never thought cows were very smart (sometimes one would get lost in the pasture, and we would have to go find her), I did learn the hard way they were easily agitated. You would think that I would learn not to run in a cow barn after being kicked once, but I was a child always going at high speed so it took a second time and a stern lecture from my dad to show me the error of my ways. I gained a greater respect for cows after that.
When I grew up, married, and had children, we had all types and sizes of pets, from tiny white mice, hermit crabs, parakeets, fish, gerbils, hamsters, rabbits, and several cats and dogs to a 1,500 pound horse named Sunshine that once tried to follow my children into my kitchen because someone left the back door open.
My first dog as a married person was a reddish-colored mutt our first daughter named Dinah because that was the name of my father’s dog. As a pup, Dinah had an overwhelming appetite for Pam’s stuffed animals. You could put Pam and the pup together but all stuffed toys had to be picked up first. Who would ever have believed that Dinah would become a hero.
We had lived in an apartment in Brookfield for a while, but it had become too small for us. So we purchased a small home in Newtown that had more bedrooms, plus a nice yard for Pam and the pup. One thing we had not counted on when we moved was that Dinah seemed to regress after being totally house trained. After several times, it finally occurred to me she was just checking out the new territory, much like small children always want to see the bathroom in a new place.
If I made her wait, no accidents occurred, but she would whine for a while until she realized I was on to her. One morning after breakfast, I was hanging clothes in the bedroom closet, and Pam was playing in her crib. Dinah was by the baby gate by the stairs had been whining and crying for a while, and didn’t stop like she usually did. Finally I decided I’d better let her go out.
When I opened the gate, Dinah started down the stairs, then froze halfway down, looking back at me instead of running for the back door. I went down to stand by her and looked into the downstairs. The dining room was on fire. Terrified, I ran up, grabbed Pam, told Dinah to go and I followed her through the living room and kitchen and out the back door. I called the fire department and my husband and father from a nearby doctor’s office, then left Pam and the pup there while I waited for the firemen.
If I live to be 100, I will never forget that day. Had I not realized that Dinah was being overly upset that morning, Pam and I might not be here today or might have been badly injuried. I owed our lives to that dog.
We owned several dogs after Dinah, but she is the one that comes to mind whenever I read about some animal that through its efforts saved someone from harm.
After three children and the numerous pets we have had through the years, my house seems very quiet. My cat, a Maine Coon named Periwinkle Blue (Peri for short), is totally convinced he is the boss of the house. And you know what? He may be right. It is said that dogs have masters and cats have staff.
