Jason Rodriguez - The Moose in the Closet

When you come to this site, you read stories about Hooker Hands and pants shitting and you likely say to yourself, when does he get to the stories about cute kittens and purse-sized dogs? Well, today’s the day, ladies and gentlemen, when I introduce you to the kids.

That’s right, the kids. Because I’m cheese for my pets.

I’ve talked about the pets I’ve had before Robin. A cat as a child that tortured me. A bird that I named after my adopted Grandma Fran that died almost instantly. The goldfish that we couldn’t kill. The beagle that was killed by his vet. And then LJ, who’s still alive – good ole, dumb as a sack of rocks, LJ.

Robin had some pets back in the day, too. A cat called Mittens. Usually, when you call a cat Mittens, it means they’re cute. This guy was an outdoor cat, though, that would drag dead mice and birds into Robin’s room as a kid. She had a dog, as well, but I forget his name. One year for his birthday (a late birthday – shortly before he died) they let him sit on a dining room chair and eat cake. From that day on, whenever the family would sit for dinner, the dog would take a chair and growl at anyone who tried to move him. Robin also had a rat named Sidney but we’ll get to him.

By my count, that’s seven pets total. In the eight years that Robin and I have been together, we’ve owned ten pets. So, let’s go…

The Bird

We lived in Southwest DC for six months. I picked out the apartment, Robin hated it. We’d often travel into neighborhoods we’d rather live in and one day we found ourselves in a pet shop in Bethesda. In this pet shop there was this well-groomed, well-mannered Quaker Parrot up for adoption. We asked the employees about the bird and they told us that the owners haven’t been home much and haven’t had time to dedicate to the bird. He’s eight years old, and Quakers usually live to around 25.

We liked the guy, we took him out and he sat on our fingers and our shoulder. His name was Quaky and we really couldn’t change it because the only thing he knew how to say was, “I’m Quaky.” It’d be awkward if we changed his name to Julius or something. So, we decided to adopt Quaky.

He was great. He’d fly around the house, land on our finger, say, “I’m Quakey,” in case we forgot. We really liked the guy. And then he turned on me, took a chunk of my finger off, and I stopped liking him almost instantly.

Apparently, Quaker Parrots tend to bond to one person and one person only, and usually a female. He viewed Robin as his mate and I was his competition. Because of this, he attacked me whenever he had the chance. We ended up clipping his wings, obviously.

Robin still loved him until he started biting her, too. He doesn’t attack her – doesn’t fly at her face like he does to mine – but he sure as hell doesn’t let her hold him. We decided that he’s just a mean bird. That’s why his previous owners really gave him up.

We tried to soften him up a bit but nothing worked. There are currently two trains of thought in the house. Mine is that we failed, and someone else will do better. Robin’s is that someone else will put him to sleep. As with all things in our household, Robin’s logic wins, and we still have Quaky. On the bright side, he only has ten years left.

Only. Ten. Years.

The Rats

Once we realized that the bird hates us we decided to get a pet that’ll love us. This was while we were still in Southwest and we weren’t allowed cats or dogs. So we got rats (Robin’s idea). Robin’s first rat, Sidney, was a cute little guy – she had him when we first started dating. I wasn’t really down with the “rat thing” but I would let her crawl on me and I’d pet her because, honestly, I wanted to get laid (not by the rat).

So, Robin goes to a breeder and gets us two rats. Macy and Cole. Macy is the lovable, lick-your-fingers type and Cole was likely a butch lesbian. She ran on the wheel all day and would, occasionally, mount the other rats and hump them. Vigorously. We didn’t stop there – Robin hooked up with a breeder that had a dumbo rat (big ears) named Dilly and a blue-haired rex (bluish hair that looked permed) named Penny.

It was fine, they all had their own personalities and they were low-cost pets. I even took an affinity towards Penny – she’d sit at my desk while I was trying to make comics and I’d feed her treats.

The problem is, rats get sick. Real sick. Especially females. Dilly was the first to get sick. One day we see her jumping around her cage and gasping for air. We take her to the vet. Now, we’re new at this. We don’t know about prices or any of that stuff. We take this rat to the vet at night. They take her in, put her on a ventilator, and observe her. The following day they’re giving her meds, back on the ventilator, etc, etc, etc, and they put her down. It was sad – Robin was crying. I was a little choked up, mainly because Robin was so sad. But I started crying when I saw that bill – it was a touch over a thousand dollars.

For a rat. That cost us fifteen bucks. Even Robin, the animal lover, thought we might have gone a bit too far with the treatments. So, we made a pact – every rat gets one chance. Unless their chance involves ventilators, then we say goodbye.

Macy and Cole got tumors; those were reasonably priced to remove and counted as their one chance (we had a better vet now, too). Macy had a respiratory infection that we gave her medicine for until she died. We put her to sleep. Cole ended up dying the exact same way. When there was only Penny left we adopted a fifth rat, Dipper. The only male of the crew – he was a cool dude but Penny got a tumor shortly after we adopted him, which we removed, and the respiratory illness to follow. She died while we were taking her to the vet.

That left Dipper. When we adopted him, he was about two years old. He lived for a year and died peacefully, never a problem. We decided that if we ever get another rat it’ll be a boy. We never got another rat, though, and I think that was a good decision. They were just way too expensive.

The Cats

We were only supposed to get one cat. We adopted her from the shelter. Her name was Crystal but we weren’t having any of that so we just call her Kitty. Some cat-lady croaked and twenty-some-odd cats were dropped off at the shelter – Kitty was the last one. She was nine when we adopted her, she was friendly as all hell, and she’s been in this non no-kill shelter for several months. The way we saw it, we had to adopt her, because no-one else was going to. She has a mullet, she sleeps in bed with us, and she’s clumsy as all hell. A good cat.

Robin was volunteering at the same shelter when she met our second cat, Rogue. Rogue was around seven. Lovable and petite. We took her home; she took a couple of months to get integrated, Kitty would kick her ass constantly. She meows a lot, she wakes us up as soon as the alarm goes off or one of us opens our eyes, and she keeps the other cats in line. All good.

We decided to stop at two cats.

Our third cat, Frisky, was two years old when we got her. She was my Grandma Fran’s cat. Her son got it for her to keep her company/keep her busy; Grandma Fran had Alzheimer’s. When Grandma Fran died, her son said he was going to put the cat to sleep. Robin and I wouldn’t have that so we took the cat. Frisky was hiding in the walls of my Grandma Fran’s apartment and we managed to flush her out. My father drove her down to DC. She got along fine with Rogue but Kitty gave her a hard time. She jumps around a lot, she’s afraid of everything, and I’ve never seen her bat back at any of the other cats. With a cat like that, three doesn’t seem so bad.

Our fourth cat was a foster that we decided to keep. Ashes. She’s a terror but she keeps things interesting. She’s a three-year-old punk, she attacks everybody, and whereas her ass is occasionally handed to her by Rogue, she keeps Kitty and Frisky on their toes. We kept her solely for the entertainment value. We’ve learned how to keep her in line if we need to – when the Nerf gun comes out she knows she went too far. But she’s always the first to greet us, she likes to play rough, and she doesn’t upset the status quo too much.

Four cats. No intention of getting a fifth. Robin’s not allowed at shelters anymore.

The Dog

And then there’s Becky. Robin manages the largest pet sitting service in DC. One of her clients died and left behind a nine-year-old rat terrier. Six pounds, she’s smaller than all of our cats. Her name’s Becky – Robin brought her home to see if I liked her.

I don’t like small dogs unless their beagles or bulldogs. A dog should be at least twenty pounds, that’s how I see it. This dog had large, beady eyes and ears that poked up. Hardly any fur and bad breath. She had a burn on her back - when she was spayed they kept a heat lamp on her for too long. She was just a beat-up, mangy looking dog.

But she loves to play fetch. Seriously, fetch for hours. One day we were having a barbeque and everyone there kept throwing the ball for Becky. She kept fetching that ball UNTIL SHE PASSED OUT. We had to take her upstairs and put her into a tub of cold water to revive her. She fetched until her body shut down.

I was a big fan of the fetching, so I let Robin adopt her. The integration was tough, because I wasn’t too down with some Becky-things, but Robin was patient me. For instance – Becky won’t go outside if it’s cold. Especially not if it’s snowing or raining. You just end up dragging her around. She won’t go to the bathroom. So we had to get her sweaters and booties.

Well, I wasn’t going to walk around with a dog wearing a sweater and booties. I refused to, actually. The first time she pissed on the rug changed my mind about that one, however. So, now I walk her with a sweater and booties.

But, like I said, it’s all about the fetching. On a hot summer day I sit on the lawn in a beach chair with a 32 of Delirium and a good book. I put some water out there for Becky and every five minutes I give the ball a toss. We stay out there like that for hours. Sometimes I’ll use the whiffle-ball bat to get the ball going nice and far. I get to practice my hitting and Becky gets to stretch her legs. It’s the perfect partnership.

She loves cheese, she loves barbeque, and she demands the attention of pretty girls. She’s a good dog.

And that’s the extended family. We currently have five animals – the cats, the bird, and the dog. No plans to get any more.

And I definitely think we’re done with the rats.

Labels: dc, pets

The Rest of the Family

Monday, March 26, 2007

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