We’ve become “those” people.
I realized this in the checkout lane of the grocery store while the cashier ran my goods over the scanner.
He was making idle chit-chat. As he scanned a large pack of crunchy kitty treats he said, “Got a cat, eh?”
I realize now the correct answer. The reasonable, maybe even sane answer. It would have been something along the lines of: “Yep. Sure do.” And that would have been the end of it.
Instead, I replied, “Yeah. He’s a deaf stray with only three teeth. I don’t know why he loves these so much. Can’t crunch them with only three teeth. Chuckle-chuckle. But, you know, kitty gets what kitty wants.”
Did I actually just say that?!?
The cashier stopped and stared at me. He had his mask on, but I know underneath his mouth was agape. He was trying to figure out something to say. Anything. Finally, he managed, “Yeah, OK, so … got any coupons?”
I think he learned his lesson: Don’t make small talk over kitty treats EVER again.
And I learned my lesson: I am one of “them” now.
You know the type. The crazy cat people and animal lovers. The folks who have 150 cats in their house. Who talk about them all the time. The guy who never goes out in public unless his pet parrot or iguana is perched on his shoulder. The people who breed rare Portuguese dancing squirrels. Or, in our case, the loons who take in deaf cats with only three teeth or blind yard lizards. Then we go out into the world, tell people about this and expect that they’re not going to say things like, “Well, it seems you’re off your medicine again. I’ll be going now.”
Has my family transcended from merely being animal owners, or even animal lovers, and faceplanted into the land of critter quacks?
People ask us about our animals all the time. Or worse, we bring them up, and share all the grizzly, embarrassing details. They stare.
We have a dog. Two chickens, one of whom is getting old and needs help onto her perch each night. The deaf porch cat with three teeth. A blind yard lizard, maimed in a skirmish with a cat that left one of his eyes hanging out … until it fell off! Wait! Why am I STILL telling you this!?!
Worse, about a week ago we had TWO lizards. While visiting my mother, we helped rescue the reptile who had been set loose in her house. It was by her cat Little Joe, a jet-black panther of a feline who thinks his way of paying rent is bringing home live lizards. “Here you go! Keep the change!”
Little Joe is a series of words I cannot repeat here.
We caught the lizard. It had a puncture in its side the size of the Lincoln Tunnel and my mother said to throw it out in the yard. It was just going to die anyway.
My daughter was horrified, and took it as a personal challenge. That if she could nurse a blind, battle-scarred lizard back to health – and teach it to eat out of her hand – a lizard with both eyes would be a piece of cake.
She started researching how to nurse injured lizards back to health, and came across a chatroom (really a lizard cult) where people dispensed advice and asked to see pictures of the little bugger so they could “ooh” and “ahh.” One person was from Russia. Seeing a live Florida porch lizard was the thrill of her year, and my daughter was enthralled by it all. “I’ve found my people,” she told me.
We were sinking deeper and deeper …
The injured lizard did recover, and has gone back into the wild. But even if one has departed, I worry we are drifting from compassion for critters into the land of crazy. Lifting geriatric chickens onto their perches. Teaching blind lizards to drink from plastic syringes. What’s next? Chewing up kitty treats for the toothless cat?
If the neighbors haven’t already, they’ll soon be pointing to us as “those” people down the street. Crossing the road when they see us coming in hopes of avoiding another animal exploit story – one where they never quite know how to react.