Pets Are Almost Human

 Read more from Margaretha here

I was observing my cats looking intently at the television one morning. The BBC Channel was on with a live showing of a wildlife documentary. First, the cats sat on top of the back of the couch, intensely watching the program. Next, both jumped off and while one virtually climbed the tv, the other one sat on her back legs, her body up straight, like a meercat. Both watched for well over half an hour and finally, Rainbow, the patchwork one, climbed up to the television and tried to get closer, patting the screen. When she could not get hold of the animals, she jumped back on the floor and made some very uncomplimentary noises. I don't think she was impressed! Every day, the minute I turn on the TV, both sit in-front watching with incredible concentration.

Rainbow is more intelligent than Marmelade, her larger male companion. She regularly fishes a small snail-shaped shell out of a tall glass container, filled with hundreds of shells. Then she plays with it on the tiled floors. After she had lost three under the furniture, she fished for a larger one and each time the shell came too close to any furniture, she picked it up in her mouth and carried it back out to the hall. She spends hours playing football with the shell that sounds like a small bell every time it hits a wall. Her best trick is to carry the shell to the top of the stairway and then biff it down, while she races after the wildly bouncing 'toy'. Because all the floors and the stairs are either marble or tiled, her toy scoots across the floors with great speed.

But her favourite time is Christmas, when the tree is loaded with shiny, multi-coloured balls. Jumping off the back of the couch, she then launches herself at the top of the tree, grabs a glass ball with all four feet and thunders down through the branches. Then the fun begins. Patting the ball until it rolls to the top of the stairwell, she stops, sits down and enjoys what is to come. Suddenly, she leaps straight in the air, belts the ball and keeps hitting it as it bounces down the stairs, until it breaks into numerous shiny splinters with a delicate tinkling sound. Back to the tree and the whole performance starts anew, to the horror of my flatmate, who can't understand why I don't stop her. What matters the loss of treasured finely spun glass balls, I had carefully carried from the other side of the globe, against the hours of delighted laughter she provides me with? Of course, I now replace the balls each year with cheap ones.

I am not too happy with her today though as she has swiped my glasses! Everything that is loose, she carts away, never to be seen again, although I wouldn't be surprised at all seeing her come into the lounge with the glasses perched on her nose! Pens, small jewellery, bottle tops, nothing small enough to fit in her mouth is safe. Meanwhile, I am as blind as a bat. I shall have to train the dogs to retrieve all my stolen possessions!

This reminds me of many other animals we had owned over the years. Because my father was a country doctor, the villagers brought all the injured animals to him, the vet living several villages away. We had an owl, chickens, rabbits, doves, mice, dogs, cats and a young fox. One day, someone brought a young crow who had fallen from the nest and could not yet fly. We named him Gerard.

He was hand-fed and gradually became tame, escorting us to the school bus each day.

When he could fly, he would fly above our German shepherd, Akbar, dive bombing him and teasing the dog with small pecks. They were great friends, so the dog only half-heartedly jumped at Gerard now and then. The pair waited until our bus came and then would return home.

Gerard was incredibly talented. He could perfectly imitate Akbar's bark and the two would have a barking contest that made so much noise that it drove us mad. The farmer behind our house complained bitterly to my father that his children were disrespectful to him and his wife by repeatedly yelling her daily morning request for him to help her in her corset! Even though Dad took him to our garden, so he could hear the crow yell; "Dirk, come and lace up my corset" he still blamed us! Our Gerard was a great mimic.

Tragedy struck poor Gerard one day. While diving down to give Akbar a peck on his head, the dog playfully snapped upwards and mistakenly broke the crow's wing. We had to return home carrying the stricken bird for our father to fix. While Dad placed a splint along the wing and cut the wing feathers so that Gerard wouldn't try to fly during the healing process, the dog would not leave his side. For several weeks, the pair trotted along behind us as we walked slowly to the bus, the crow with his injured wing strapped to his body hopping behind us and his four-footed friend keeping the same slow pace.

Gerard never flew again. His wing never recovered properly and the dog and he were inseparable. But life picked up for our crow, who was by now several years old. We were presented with another young crow. The villager who had found it, thought that it was Gerard.

Instantly, Gerard perked up. Our German shepherd was ignored as the crow busily gathered sticks, moss and other soft materials, building a nest for the obvious female crow who had joined him. His attitude had drastically changed! He no longer sat in the sun with his eyes half shut, dreaming of his youth, no, he now owned a trophy wife!

We had a large pond where Gerard bathed every morning, standing on the concrete platform at the shallow end. He would take his time with his toilet, frequently staring in the water at his own image, splash and rub his beak over his feathers to flatten and shine them until he was satisfied that there couldn't possibly be any crow more handsome than he was. Then, shaking himself dry, he proudly strutted to his new wife. A couple of weeks after the young crow had joined him, we found her floating in the pond, drowned. Obviously, she had tried to imitate Gerard and had jumped in at the deep end!

From then onwards, Gerard pined and pined. He was broken-hearted and refused food or the comfort of his old dog friend. Sitting beside the nest, he finally succumbed to his grief and joined his female companion in crow's paradise.

For several years we owned a small dog with a long downy coat, and a terrible temper. He was incredibly comical with his bulging eyes, and his sharp little teeth always bared, but he had great style. A friend had taken him away from someone who maltreated the baby Pekinese when he was still a tiny ball of fluff, and gave him to us.

The friend handed me the tiny silky ball with three large black buttons in its centre. Two liquid black eyes looked at me and a tiny pink tongue licked the black button nose. When I cuddled him against the side of my face, he promptly bit me! Putting the tiny angry ball on the floor, it quickly sidled under the fridge without any trouble, that is how small he was! No amount of coaxing would bring him out, so I decided that hunger would make him surface, sooner or later. Coming back in the kitchen, an hour later, I was surprised by a clear stream flowing towards the kitchen table. Its origin was the tiny dog! How could such a small creature produce such a volume of wee! At 7 o'clock that night, he still hadn't appeared from his hiding place and I called the neighbour to help me lift the fridge. Grabbing the growling furball, I had to laugh. His eyes were rolled back, nearly  popping out with fury. Holding him so that he couldn't bite me, I gently sat him on top of the kitchen table on some newspapers, in front of his bowl, now filled with minced chicken and rice. He wolfed it down, turned his back to me and started cleaning his coat, like a cat does. It took several days before the tiny creature trusted me. I found that he hated shoes and being picked up.

Contacting the past owners, I was told that the man of the house had used the puppy as a football and kicked it along the floor and thrown it in the air to amuse himself, while the petrified baby pup curled itself up as tightly as possible. No wonder he went off his rocker the minute he spotted a foot clad in a shoe or a hand!

Within a week, however, he trotted behind me, making small high-pitched yelps and sounds, rolling behind me like a ball of angora wool.

When he decided to explore the garden, the edge of single bricks that ran around the flowerbeds, became his nemesis. Bam-Bam, as we had called him, managed to climb onto the brick and then became cast, his tiny legs furiously kicking on both sides! It was such a comical sight! Imagine a dog, whose size was so tiny that a brick, lying flat, was too high a wall to climb over!

If I went shopping, he was popped in the pocket of my shirt or blouse, head peeping out and eyes roving around to take-in everything. Of course, he looked so adorable that people reached out to stroke his little head all the time. I learned to jump back and warn them, as he didn't hesitate to clamp his sharp milk teeth around their fingers neatly puncturing them and growling menacingly.  

We had this Pekinese for fifteen years, during which time he accompanied me to my office every day and continued his war against feet and fingers, regularly winning, as my clients often would not believe that this adorable-looking creature really was a regular little devil.

When he finally died, our cat, also fifteen years, who had been his close companion throughout his life, sat on the grave and howled. Next morning, we found that he had dug up the towel-wrapped body and faithfully had held a wake!  The cat, sitting beside his departed friend, had closed its outer eyelids and looked blind. Over the following weeks, he lost all his hair. He grieved for his friend and it took all our and the vet's efforts, by force feeding him through a syringe, to keep him alive and he recovered, only to pass away nevertheless, a few weeks later.

Although we were terribly sad at having lost both our pets, it certainly showed that animals have the same deep feelings of love and grief.

By Margaretha Western-Brounts