A Pet for Woody

The criteria for getting a pet around here are not too stringent. There are only a few tests a potential pet must pass: most importantly, will we have to fire up the tractor to bury it?  If not, the answer is probably going to be a hearty, “Oh, I guess so.”  Providing, of course, that said pet, regardless of species, can survive on a diet of Aldi’s-brand dog food when we inevitably run out of the recommended food.  The chickens adore dog food, as do the donkeys and goat, and also Lucy, when the occasion calls for it.

Which is why, when Woody asked if he could have a turtle, I didn’t bat an eyelash. 

I briefly considered telling him that his room was NOT, under any circumstances, to smell any worse with the addition of this pet.  The boys’ room, which they share with Rooger (Jack’s dog), has a decidedly unique aroma not unlike wet socks rolled up in a down comforter and left under a hot reading lamp for days on end, which, in fact, turned out to be the cause.  But it was only after we moved Rooger’s kennel, with Rooger in it, out to the garage, and the odor persisted, that we realized it was Rooger who smelled of Woody, and not the other way around.

In any case, Woody was in a dither getting ready for his new turtles (somehow one turtle became two, probably because Jim got involved). Which got me to thinking about how Woody used to be about animals.  But first you have to know about Woody.

At the tender age of one, Woody could vault out of his crib with the panache of an Olympic gymnast. As a toddler, he was fearless, known to contrive ways to climb to the top of the fence that separated our yard from the next, and walk along the top of it until he either fell, or was rescued by our neighbor.  “Here you go, MacGyver,” Tony would say as he deposited Woody back on our side of the fence, much to Woody’s disappointment.

Jacob and Woody exploring rocks, Seattle, WA, 2005

Woody fell down stairs, off decks, onto rocks and against coffee table corners with such regularity that the area of his forehead he hit most often developed a calcified bump, which we affectionately referred to as his “horn”.

Exploring with Uncle Ty

Climbing with Jack at Grandpa and Grandma's

With Jack, Yellowstone National Park, 2007

In Hawaii, 2008

The first week we lived out here -- and unbeknownst to me -- four-year-old Woody climbed up the 20-foot-tall windmill, (which is how he got that deep cut on his back that I found later).  Then he climbed 15 feet up a pine tree where he yelled, “Mommy!  Hey, Mommy!” until I turned around and caught sight of him leaning out of the branches and waving wildly at me.  I knew then I had a decision to make:  I could either scream at him to come down from there RIGHT NOW or I was going to blister his bottom; or I could swallow my heart and pray that his guardian angel in heaven who always sees God’s face (probably about a raise) was particularly vigilant. And all the while I must give the outward appearance of being mildly impressed yet faintly annoyed I had been drawn away from some vitally important task. 

I chose the latter, and it has been so effective that the kids have learned not to bother me with minor injuries, like the time Woody apparently sustained some blow to the head which damaged his still undescended front top teeth and resulted in the dentist surgically removing them when Woody was five.

The windmill Woody scaled when he was four.

Jack (at top) and Woody (still climbing) in South Dakota, 2009

But Woody, who never thought a moment of the dangers of climbing or falling, was terrified of animals.  Trusty the basset didn’t count since she was more like a piece of furniture (in so many ways) than an animal.  But when Jim brought home Dixie and Daisy, our miniature donkeys, and assigned the task of feeding and caring for them to the boys, Woody was out of his element.

Woody and Dixie.  This was as close as he allowed her to get.

While Jack calmly walked around the donkeys, talking to them, stroking their noses, offering them hay, weeds, gloves, whatever he had, Woody cowered behind Jim or any other large piece of equipment, staying far from their heads and large yellow teeth, apparently fearing they would bite him, when the more realistic danger was that they would kick him without ever bothering to look at him.  For the first year, he shied away with a look of sheer panic whenever one tried to nuzzle him, and was never caught alone with them in the corral. 

I don’t know for certain why he was so frightened of animals, but I blame the peacock.  It was a resident of a zoo in Austin, or somewhere thereabouts, which we visited with Jim’s sister and her family.  Woody may have been three that summer, and thought the zoo was fantastic until we blundered upon a peacock who just happened to be perched on a fence rail two feet from its unsuspecting victims – us.   It may have been more startled than we, but I suspect it was just weary of being ogled by adoring children who pelted it with zoo-issue snacks.  Without a moment’s hesitation, it snapped out its fan tail and emitted an ear-drum piercing shriek.  A few minutes later, when I could hear again, and after I pried Woody’s arms from around my neck, I promised myself we would NEVER own a peacock, and I have been faithful to that promise.  But the long-term result was that for months afterwards, Woody cried and clawed up my legs whenever he saw any bird eyeing him.

At the zoo with Aunt Jen, Lydia and Jack, 2005

Woody chasing a peacock (in the middle of the photo) just before our terrifying encounter with one of its friends.

Over the years his fear of animals matured into a disdainful indifference.  The donkeys and goats were chores to check off so he could play video games; the dogs were good for lounging on, but little else; the chickens and rabbits were just part of the scenery.  

Scary Rabbits.

Only the turkeys garnished positive attention, and this because they were such a delight to terrorize with his cousin Jacob.  Grinning and barely containing their giggles, Woody and Jake would creep silently up behind the vain tom turkey who was preening for the hens, and when they were an arm’s-length away, the boys would erupt with whoops and war cries from the tall, autumn grass, brandishing sticks like swords, to pursue the bewildered turkeys across the fields and into the trees. 

Woody finally got used to the donkeys.

But until the beginning of this week, Woody had never wanted a pet. 

I wondered if Woody was ready for the responsibility of caring for them, of keeping the girls out of the tank (can we say, “salmonella”?), of the smell … but I guess these weren’t ever real obstacles when I recalled Woody eagerly reading books and on-line articles about turtle care; making a list of the things he needed, cleaning a space off the desk for the aquarium, counting out his allowance and carefully selecting appropriate turtle names.

He went so far as to post a sign on his bedroom door which warned ominously, “No One Touches Woody’s Turtles Without Him Saying So.” I haven’t figured out if it’s meant to deter his sisters (it would be a lot more effective if they could read), or his friends, of which he’ll have a lot fewer, with that attitude.

We all felt the anticipation growing Friday morning.  Once that horrible nuisance, school, was finished, Woody retrieved his sleeping bags and pillows, and settled in front of the kitchen window to await the UPS delivery truck.  It won’t ever get here if you keep watching for it there, I told him.  So with a heavy sigh, Woody collected his waiting gear … and resettled himself in front of the living room windows.  When Jim called with the news that UPS tracking showed the turtles might not arrive due to inclement weather, Woody almost wailed, “They NEVER get here on time!”

Waiting.

Sympathetic mother that I am, I distracted him.  Cleaning your room may not be fun, but sometimes it’s good to have something to do.  That’s what I told him anyway. 

Miraculously, the turtles arrived during lunch.   Two minutes later, they were in their new home.  Never before has a turtle tank been so carefully prepared: rocks and gravel placed just so; a warming lamp adjusted to emit just the proper amount of heat; food flakes opened and ready to be sprinkled on the water’s surface.  One turtle promptly hid behind the heater, and the other tried to dig his way into a pile of rocks. 

“They’ll never make it!” Jim announced cheerfully after he got home and Woody dragged him back to view them.  “He won’t leave them alone.” 

Meh, who knows?  We’re the last people to judge a person’s heart by the lifespan of their animals.  What I know is, for a week, I have been a rock star, just because I said yes to the pet.  I suspect this is part of why Jim says, “yes” to all the rabbits, ducks, geese, and chickens.   I get to keep the memories of an ecstatic Woody bear hugging me and fairly singing, “I LOVE you, Mom!” 

I love you too, son.  Now go wash your hands with soap.

Woody with Hustle and Flipper