Memories of Whiskey the chinchilla

There was a time I didn’t own two dachshunds. I was in my twenties, and living in Rochester, New York. I was there because of a girlfriend who was going to college at a local university. At some point she decided she wanted a pet, and she, well we, ended up with a chinchilla.

We decided to name him Whiskey, because of a silly word play on the word ‘whiskers.’ The little guy was flat out adorable. As you might expect from a rodent whose pelt is made into uber-expensive coats, Whiskey’s fur wasn’t just soft, it was guaranteed to make you say “oooooh” and “aaaaaaah,” or your money back. Compared to Whiskey, cashmere was 20 grit sandpaper. Holding him was a singularly odd experience, because you didn’t even realize what you were holding until your fingers had sunk inches through his thick fur to his tiny, soft little body.

When the girlfriend and I broke up, I got custody of the little mountain squirrel. I didn’t mind at all. He was a fun pet. Whiskey was affectionate, loved darting around my room, chewing on speaker cable and very expensive headphones. When he wasn’t exploring, he liked being held, and especially snuggled near my face. I think he liked my beard.  Chinchillas are very clean animals, but they don’t bathe in the traditional sense. Instead, Whiskey had a bowl of superfine, volcanic ash that he’d roll in, then shake himself off. He loved to eat shelled peanuts. I, in turn, loved watching him eat shelled peanuts.

I’d give him a little peanut. He’d sit back on his haunches near the front of the cage, hold a horizontal bar with one front paw, and with the other, grasp the peanut as if it was a peeled banana, munching on it slowly and (there’s no other way to put this) thoughtfully. He’d gaze into the middle distance, as if contemplating the sublime joy of the exalted peanut.

Chinchillas are bred to live in high, mountainous terrain, and they like cool climates. I knew that it was important that his living space not become too warm, but unfortunately one weekend I was out of town. While I was away, the outside temperature climbed into the high 90's, and the powerful air conditioner that cooled the room broke down. I found Whiskey had overheated. Through steady tears and sniffles, I buried him in the back yard, under a big rhododendron bush.

He was only around for about three or four years, but I still think about Whiskey from time to time, and smile. Through him, I came to understand that good things do indeed come in small packages.

Photo credit: Chinchilla (not Whiskey), gotpetsonline.com

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‘Good dog’ rules bring up sweet memories

I love this time of year for the outrageously funny things that find their way into my e-mail Inbox. One recurrent favorite of mine is the list of things dogs must remember in order to be a “Good Dog.” I received it earlier this week and it both warmed my heart and brought to front of mind some of the most precious memories of my life. It’s moments like these that remind me what a privilege it is to share days and nights, ups and downs, highs and lows with furry four-leggeds. I’d like to share a few of these stories, smiles, and memories …

To be a Good Dog I will remember:

The sofa is not a “face towel.”The garbage collector is not stealing our stuff.I will not eat the cats’ food before they eat it or after they throw it up.

Micah, my very first dog as an adult, was a heat-seeking missile when it came to food (matched only by my current Golden Retriever, Farrah). He and my cat of that time, OJ, had a deal. Periodically OJ would eat too quickly and erp up his breakfast or dinner, providing Micah with an extra “snack.” They were in cahoots for all the years they lived together.

I will not play tug-of-war with Mom’s underwear when she’s on the toilet.I must shake the rainwater out of my fur before entering the house — not after.The litter box is not a cookie jar.

Mollie Mae was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. She was a very sweet, very petite Saint Bernard — only 85 pounds — and we had an idea early on that she would not attend MIT. We found out late in her life that she had a condition we generally associate with tiny dogs like Chihuahuas and Yorkie –  hydrocephalus –  also called “water on the brain.” When the neurologist called following Mollie’s brain MRI she said, “The good news is that Mollie does NOT have a brain tumor, and the bad news is that Mollie dosen’t have very much brain at all.” We joked that Mollie had only one neuron, and it fired backward. She really seemed able to hold only one thought in her brain at a time. Her favorite “one thought” was the memory of where the “crunchy granola bars” lived. Inspite of scooping litter pans twice daily, Mollie Mae regularly managed to raid what was, for her, her favorite “cookie jar.”

I don’t need to suddenly stand up straight up when I’m under the coffee table.I will not come in from outside and immediately drag my butt across the carpet.I will not roll on dead seagulls, fish, crabs, etc., just because I like the way they smell.

Cimarron was our genetically deaf Australian Shepherd. She was the product of two blue merle parents and was relinquished to us when we refused to kill her for the sin of deafness. She was mostly white with two blue merle patches, and loved nothing better than throwing her pristine whiteness onto something long enough dead to be really stinky, but not long enough dead to be returned to the dust of the earth. In spite of the nastiness, we had to smile at her delight in visiting outdoor “cologne bars.”

I will not sit in the middle of the living room and lick my crotch.The cat is not a “squeaky toy” so when I play with him and he makes that noise, it’s usually not a good thing.Sticking my nose into someone’s crotch is an unacceptable way of saying “hello.”

Murphy was an amazing dog (that’s Murphy with me in the photo). She was diagnosed at 5 years of age with osteosarcoma (bone cancer) in her left front leg. Following a bone transplant to keep her leg and IV chemotherapy, she lived a completely normal life until her second osteosarcoma three years later. This tumor was in her right rear leg, and was treated with radiation therapy and a second round of IV chemotherapy. She was in remission until she died, five years after her first bone cancer diagnosis, when her heart stopped while she slept.

Murphy was the most gregarious Great Dane I have yet met. And her favorite way to say “hello” was to use her head as a battering ram into that most private area of a human’s body. Ultimately, we had to warn our male friends to wear their steel cups when they came to visit.

What a joy it has been to witness this steady stream of characters into and out of our lives! Each day is a new adventure with them. How wonderful it is to share space with animals.

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