Ninety Pounds of Rancid Fur

Story and Photos by John O’Bryan

In our thirty-five years of marriage, Kelly and I have brought into our lives a total of three dogs, two cats, five bunnies, one bird, twelve chickens, hundreds of insects, dozens of fish, and none of them could ever be considered even remotely attached to my wife—except for the praying mantis that landed on her pregnant belly and wouldn’t let go. She has this anti-animal thing going on that manifests in mutual animosity. She barely tolerates our pets, and they avoid her like she’s pest control.

I think her aversion has a genetic component passed down from her mother. Her mom used to “accidentally” let every new dog out of the house without telling anyone, in hopes she could say it had “runoft.”  Her mom loves animals now, just not her own. While Kelly has never opened the door and told one of our pets to fly away and be free, that’s clearly the message whenever her tolerance for a specific animal has run its course.

I, on the other hand, grew up with parents who loved dogs. We always had at least one of the animals running around our house at any given time and because of that, by golly, my kids would have dogs too. I was naïve and mistaken. Before you start thinking of me as the next SPCA member of the year, I need to confess that only four of the animals brought into our home ever stuck…and those just barely. The countless others were either carted off to some farm or other, given away to unsuspecting friends, sold online, let loose, or left in the freezer to die (the insects, not the cats).