Pippa says "I like dogs." She steers me over to the park bulletin board, where someone has posted an announcement about five available pug puppies. "Nope," I say, not even bothering with "You should talk to your mother." Or "You like cows, too, but you might not be so happy sharing your bedroom in Brooklyn with one." Her round about approach to the issue of pet ownership interests me, though. No childish "Buy me one, buy me one!" for her. Simply, grandly, make the announcement and see what happens next.
At home, at her Mother's place, they have two cats: Smart and Silly. Silly has a little gender confusion: she is slow and credulous, like many a male cat of my acquaintance. Or maybe she and Smart just divided up the cat jobs and she got the short straw. For a time, while Pippa's parents still lived under one roof, her dad had taught Smart and Silly to use the toilet for a toilet. He read about it somewhere and liked the idea of eliminating a litter box. And it worked. It wasn't all that fun to find the little cat scut floating in the only toilet, but it was flushable - not by the cats, unfortunately. This toileting practice has faded away, now that the former man of the family resides elsewhere. Silly did learn to do it, though she was often lax in her positioning, so maybe she's smarter than she'd like us to think.
At her Dad's home, Pippa has a bunny. I don't know whether the bunny uses the toilet but I rather doubt it. Bunnies don't have the agility to scramble up on the toilet seat or the claws to hold them in place. I kind of hope the bunny gets to just deposit his waste wherever he finds himself.
Currently, at my house, there are two dogs and three cats. We have Gracie, a terrier mix, with reproachful brown eyes and a penchant for rolling on rugs. Her companion is Omar, a Tibetan Terrier. He looks like a shrunken llama and is generally of good cheer. Gracie is 13, Omar is 1. Every morning he herds us up to the park, where Grace sits daintily on the path in the shade with her little short legs to the side, as she watches her puppy gambol and cavort with pugs and Boston bulls, chihuahuas and the occasional Australian heeler. Gracie interferes only if she believes one of the big dogs is hurting Omar.
The cats are Jazz, Tiny and Mama Katz. Jazz used to live in Seattle with my daughter, in his salad days. He was a roamer, with two or three ports of call, all of which fed him. He came to me when Pippa's family moved to New York. Jazz is not a fan of change. For the first year of his residence here, he lived in the basement, cuddling up to the golf clubs and boxes Pippa's parents had stored there. He barely acknowledged me, when I appeared with food for him and would not eat in my presence. On a number of occasions, delivering kibble, I stepped on the skeleton of some small rodent, so I know Jazz was not starving himself to make a point. These days, he climbs on my lap as soon as I sit down somewhere and twines his claws into my garments, purring vigorously and gazing into my eyes. This doesn't make me entirely happy but it's nice not to have to hang out in the basement with a sad, sulky pet.
The other two cats are mother and son, acquired from a rescue in Alturas. Tiny is part Maine Coon (the body type and weight) and part Scottish Fold. Mama is one-third his size: a scrawny tuxedo Fold. They both have the characteristic tiny, folded ears. Tiny has the huge eyes and fat face. They are fond of each other, except at meal times. Their relationship features a lot of sleeping, which they are proficient at. They were feral, when rescued and are particularly good at finding hiding places.
They all like Pippa. She calls them on their birthdays.
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