Pets - the last chapter

Jumbo, 1940 - 2005 (ish)

In my last post on pets I mentioned the sad tale of our much loved tortoise. We acquired Jumbo from a friend who emigrated to New Zealand; she in turn had inherited him from her Grandmother - we estimated that Jumbo was sixty years old.

Everyone loved Jumbo, even our neighbours, who turned out in force when he went on one of his great escapes - it became quite a social event; once it took us two days to find him. When we did, he was strolling merrily along the pavement towards Sainsbury's.

We built him a stronger and higher pen after that - but he foxed us by digging his way out! So I built him 'Colditz pen': wire mesh top, deep sides, overhangs for shade, reinforced corners. We even took it to Pembroke so he could be with us for the summer. But ultimately, it was this act of care - and his determined escapology - that was his undoing.

Not only did Jumbo escape from Colditz pen in Pembrokeshire, he also scaled a three foot stone wall, made his way through a tightly wired fence and headed for freedom in the fields beyond our house. Boy, did we search those fields! Day after week after month after year... For a while we thought he would be okay; we even reckoned he might have survived the winters. But when the pipes froze last January even the boys decided it was a bit much to ask.

Jane has carried the guilt for years - for it was she who moved the pen nearer to the wall before he escaped - and if you think I'm joking, I'm not; like I said, everyone loved Jumbo. For the last five years any mention of the word tortoise in our house has involved hushed tones and eyes to the floor.

Or at least, that was the case up to yesterday. Because, what else do you buy a forty eight year-old blogger for his birthday? I suppose it's obvious, when you think about it.

So welcome to Lilly, our new Horsfield Tortoise. She is all of four inches long, very feisty, a touch frisky and definitely well enclosed in her luxury home. In fact, I rather like her cage myself: sun lamp, shady area, plunge pool, green salad on demand...

I could get all philosophical, because I was pondering how odd it is to buy a pet that you know will probably out live you. Who, for instance, should I leave her to after I'm gone? They might emigrate and give her away to a friend, and then just think what might happen? But I won't go down that line, because it would be silly.

So I promise that's the end of my series on pets.

No more; absolutely no more, ever...I said, ever...

Pets again

Legless at about 12 months old

Last month, when I posted coming up for air, the accompanying picture was a list of chores. The more observant of you may have noticed the last item on the list: 'feed snake.'

So meet Legless our much loved cornsnake and almost the conclusion of my shortish series on our pets.

Its slightly odd writing 'much loved' in connection with a snake; after all, it's not as if they give you much back. But I'd argue that cornsnakes makes excellent and fascinating pets. They are beautiful, don't smell, require no walking, are educational, and a talking point at dinner parties (not that we host many). Even friends and neighbours ask after the snake, which, let's face it, is something you seldom get with a hamster.

We bought our snake when Dan was ten; he was about eight inches long - the snake that is! Dan named him Legless after the character in Lord of the Rings, which I thought was a witty take on contemporary culture for someone so young. The man in the snake shop didn't get the joke - but then the man in the snake shop is very odd indeed; more scary than the snake according to Jane.

At first Legless lived in a Tupperware box and ate 'pinkies', which is snake owner's jargon for baby mice. Today, he's five feet long resides in a palatial vivarium and dines on an extra large mouse each Sunday evening. 'There's something primeval about the way he strikes and curls round the victim - the speed of it is breathtaking. Then there's the devouring part... little boys love watching that no matter how old they are.

Which brings me to the only problem with Legless as a pet; it's what I call the 'snake thing'. After all, he is... well, a snake. And not everyone seems able to get over that. For a start they eat dead mice, (which reside in our freezer next to the ice cream tubs), every few months their eyes turn blue ands they shed their skin (which is either fascinating or gross depending on how you view it) and to be brutally frank, they are not very cuddly - though Dan likes to pose with Legless curled round his neck - very Gothic.

Aside from being popular with Goths, snakes have a long history of symbolic association. In the Christian tradition the are forever associated with the fall of Adam; in ancient mythology they were symbols of wisdom, their unblinking eyes taken as a sign of intelligence. In some cultures they are symbols of fertility or immortality. The logos of some pharmaceutical associations depict a snake wrapped round a cup (the Bowl of Hygieia) symbolising their supposed powers of healing.

In our house Legless is a symbol of success. We don't do very well with pets: the fish are no more, the dog had to be moved on... And as for Jumbo, our beloved tortoise, well there lies a very sad tale, the telling of which really will be the end of this series.

The heart and the head

There are few conflicts as great as those between the heart and the head. A clash of ideas is at least open to debate; evidence and counter assertion holding sway. But the tension between our 'innate desires' and what we ‘know to be right’ is seldom amenable to reason. More usually, the choice is binary; and therein lurks tragedy.

Today, we gave away our dog. She will be well looked after; her new owners are doggy people and they know what they are taking on; we can keep in touch because they are friends of our neighbours. When I took her this morning, she settled in within minutes – barely registering my leaving.

And she is leaving us for good reason. When we bought her our boys were eight and nine; they had wanted a dog for a few years, but we waited until they were old enough. We’d had dogs before and we understood the commitment. What we didn’t expect, was a new baby within a year.

But whatever the background, there were always going to be tears today. Jane feels we’ve let the dog down; Daniel is upset to lose the puppy he raised. I was less close, but yesterday on Newgale beach she was a delight: scampering on the rocks, digging with the boys, chasing sea gulls. It brought back memories of walking with her over Bleaklow this spring, a perfect day.

This morning Jane and Daniel dried their eyes and I took some photographs of the dog on their laps. Dylan kept out of the way - Jack Russell’s and toddlers don’t mix. It’s not her fault (the concept doesn’t apply to dogs) – she does what terriers do when prodded and poked by a four year old. But there comes a point when you can no longer ignore the growling and the snarling. And that point came the other week.

Deep down I believe in reason. In the conflict between head and heart it is usually my head that wins. Perhaps this comes from studying philosophy – more likely I was predisposed to the subject. I know that reasoning is flawed, and that too, it is bound by our circumstance and culture. But it has always seemed to me that reason is the best we have – and that despite its failings, it gives much of what we take for granted. I struggle with those who casually disregard it in a few chosen area of life, but expect its safety net in others.

Am I a cold fish? I hope not. There is no necessary inconsistency in being moved and analysing its causes; between acknowledging our desires and recognising that logic has its place. But there you have it, I’m reasoning again.

Peepo bit Dylan last week. It was only nip; she was tied up – he was sprinkling grass on her head. The excuses are easy to find. For all my ranting I cared for the dog, she is a lovely creature, well cared for, well trained, and part of our family. But the fact remains; she bit a four year old child. A few weeks earlier she did the same to a walker in the Peak District – she was cornered, the stupid girl shouldn’t have stroked her, she was nervous. Excuses that time too - though not without some truth.

Aren't dogs supposed to be for life, Jane said. I agree with the sentiment, but the reality is sometimes different. Is it fair (on either side) to take the recommended and responsible measures (a mussel, constant vigilance, separation from visitors) just so we can ‘keep’ her? Sometimes we make honest mistakes; sometimes, despite our best endeavours, plans don’t work out. And when you’ve made compromise after compromise, there is a time to say ‘enough’.

But the inner conflict remains. For the only fact of the matter is that we are all, in our different ways, sad tonight. Even Dylan said he missed her. Do I think the dog would ever have bitten him seriously? No. But I wasn’t prepared to take the chance.

And therein lies a tragedy of sorts.

It's not easy being green...

I could do a whole spoof here about the effects of rising water temperatures on the bio-sphere... the need for a sustainable aquatic environment... the imminent and very real threat to population levels (in one week our global population has dropped by 33%)... the impact of over consumption of rich food stuffs... the age of the stupid; oh why didn't we do something when we could? 

But I won't, because Jane is upset and I bought her the darn thing for Christmas, so it's partly my fault.  And tomorrow we have to change half the water, buy an algae filter and quietly replace 'Dylan Fish' before his namesake notices he's gone.  And I thought goldfish were simple.

How did that song by Van Morrison go?