One night there was a ferocious electrical storm. Knowing how timid Betsy was, I should have realised she'd be absolutely beside her beagle self with terror. I really should have let her inside or locked her in the laundry.
While Jake darted around the back yard barking back at the thunder with equal force (nothing scared that dog) , Betsy barrelled her way in through the lattice works and in under the house to hide.
|Jake: he lived until he was 17, yapping away..|
The next day, the storm abated. Betsy lay on the ground exhausted. Or so we thought. Until it became obvious something was really wrong.
"There's something wrong with Betsy," Mick told me, his face creased with concern "just keep an eye on her." He left for work.
I went outside and stroked her. She wagged her tail feebly. Hours later, she was dead.
Poisoned. She'd eaten some baits left under the house, which were meant for rodents.
Betsy loved her food. She was a sweet and timid creature who loved her food. I've heard that pets are sometimes like their owners. I had better be careful I don't eat my way to my demise like poor, beautiful Betsy.
|Betsy: RIP Beautiful girl..and..forgive me..*sobs*|
I walked around for weeks feeling like a murderer who should be sentenced and hung for killing my defenceless pet.
Jake yapped his way into old age and finally gave his last yap at age 17. Which, in dog years is.. really OLD.
Some time later the boys talked Mick into getting them a bunny. They named him George.
George got out of his rabbit hutch everday. Every. Single. Day. The doorbell would ring.
"Your rabbit's out!" a neighbourhood kid would announce. Then I would be obliged to chase the rabbit around the yard and up and down the street. I could never catch him.
Oneday he was gone for good. Rabbit stew presumably. Or somebody took him. Not sure. I was (secretly relieved) saddened and dismayed.
There have also been goldfish too numerous to mention.
We are now the proud owners of a lorrikeet named Henry. Which I was supposed to feed and look after.
I did it a few times when he was in a cage, then promptly forgot once Micky Blue Eyes put him in the aviary with his finches. Oops.
Maybe I'm not meant to have a pet. The only one that has survived is my Pet Rock. If you've never had one then you obviously were not a child of the 70's.
My Pet Rock lives on still at my parents house. See, I am a good pet owner. As long as I don't have to feed them.
Now, my pesky children are demanding food, so I guess I should feed them.
And they'll be getting an ipod (or something that doesn't require feeding) for Christmas.