Here we are a day before Christmas eve, and up until now, I hadn’t been inspired to write a new post. Recently I’d written about the passing of Lonnie DuPont (aka Callie Smith Grant) in August of this year. Lonnie was a Senior Acquisitions Editor at the Revell-Baker Publishing Group and I was honored to have contributed to four of her Revell pet-centric anthologies over the years. As this is also the first Christmas without my dad, I dedicate the story below to both Lonnie and my father that would’ve been my fifth Revell contribution for Lonnie’s proposed bird-themed anthology. My dad inspired in me a love of animals, and Lonnie was a champion for animals and those who wrote about them so in their honor I present The Natural Order of Things a story about acceptance through a young person’s perspective and one that captures my nostalgia for all things past.
* * * *
I grew up in Hackensack, New Jersey, a suburb of Manhattan. I recall with great nostalgia and affection our family home that still stands on the dead end corner of Longview Avenue, so named as that location offers an expansive vista of New York City in the distance.
Despite the urban vibe of our neighborhood, our small yard and home came to shelter a wide variety of animals, a place I’ve come to call My Menagerie on the Hill. My late brother, Matt, was our cat-lover. John favored tropical fish, snakes and reptiles, much to my mother’s dismay. My late sister, Manette, was a horse-lover who’d get to foster a beautiful Arabian Quarter horse-mix when we all spent a year residing in Boulder, Colorado in 1973.
My contribution to our Menagerie on the Hill came in the form of dogs, rodents, and birds. At a young age, I fell in love with parakeets while caring for a blue feathered beauty owned by a friend. That bird spent a lot of time out of her cage and would perch on my shoulder asking, “Where’s Mary?”, the name of her owner and singing, “Pretty bird.”
A family friend had an aviary in her home and soon I became the proud owner of my very own parakeet. For those who’ve had birds as pets, you know they require a lot of care.
After the passing of that bird, I stuck to rodents who seemed to not need as much attention and human interaction. I recall a third-grade classmate named Billy that raised and sold white mice. and gerbils. Again, much to my mother’s dismay, I was one of his best customers.
As previously noted, my late brother, Matt, favored felines. Our home’s backyard met up with that of a family’s that owned a cat named Fifi, a sweet rust-colored tabby. In the 1970s, most “house” cats lived an indoor/outdoor existence and this kitty would come to claim our home as his adopted domain, something of which his actual family remained ignorant for a long time. Matt had even renamed the cat Furley after the the character played by comedian Don Knots in the series Three’s Company that was popular at that time.
When I was about twelve years old, I became obsessed with ducks and wished to have one of my own. My father, who often served as our pet broker, managed to acquire an adorable yellow ball of fluff soon after I made my wishes known. Not being very original, I named the duckling Lucky.
There would be no ordinary cage for Lucky. My dad got busy building her a state-of-the-art enclosure. Armed with a hammer, nails, screening material and lumber, he worked an entire day in the hot sun creating that enclosure that measured approximately eight feet along the side yard of our home.
As my dad toiled, we all took turns being charmed by the adorable little Lucky. Everyone in the neighborhood adored her. But, just about at the time my father had hammered the last nail in that pen, Fifi now Furley had stealthily made his way down the side of our house toward the duck den. Before anyone could stop him, Furley swatted at Lucky delivering a blow that would prove to be fatal.
We were devastated. A tearful burial and memorial service took place in our backyard. Then a youthful call for justice and swift retribution rang out.
“The murderous feline must be punished!”
Poor Furley, ignorant of any wrong-doing, was swiftly detained in what would’ve been the unfortunate duckling’s future home. The confused and miserable feline paced his prison like a panther in a zoo encampment while a judge, attorneys, and a jury of pet-loving peers gathered for the first and most likely only pet-centric trial on the Menagerie on the Hill.
My brother John and Manette were the lawyers for the Defense and Prosecution. I was the judge of course and an assortment of neighborhood kids, including one of Furley’s real owners, served on the jury. A feline trial that was highly unlikely to be fair got underway not far from where the accused began to meow loudly, signaling his innocence and desire for an early release.
The Tabby Trial of the century was now in full swing. My sister, for the Prosecution, pointed out that our family had been kind to Furley and the cat should’ve understood that Lucky was also a beloved pet and therefore off limits as prey.
My brother for the Defense argued that the humans should have been more protective of Lucky as they were aware that Furley would be on the loose and curious about our new feathered friend.
Our rants and Furley’s increased yowling soon attracted the attention of my mother who inquired as to why we had trapped the cat in the duck’s pen.
“He killed Lucky!” I exclaimed. “He needs to be punished”.
Without hesitation, my mother opened the door to the pen and let Furley escape to his feline freedom. He did not look back as he ran toward his real home probably ravenous by then.
“A cat is a natural hunter,” my mother chided. “You can’t punish a cat for something he doesn’t even know is wrong. You kids should know that by now.”
With that message, my mother returned inside and the trial naturally concluded.
Although we pleaded for another duck, or even a chicken, our requests were ignored. For a long time, that pen stood empty, consumed by weeds and vines and wood rot, until it was dismantled by my dad.
Although Lucky spent no more than a weekend as a member of our Menagerie on the Hill, her brief appearance in my life instilled in me the humble acceptance that no protective quarters, love, or even a jury of one’s pet-loving peers can change the course of what is inherently the natural order of things.
* * * * *
Have a lovely Christmas and winter season while holding dear to those who remain and all your good memories of holidays past and beyond.