I went to 13 schools. We moved a lot, and fast. And, I need to confess that I did manage to kill my first “pets,” a pail full of tadpoles. We had been given them at school to take home over the summer so we could see the miracle of life. I looked forward to seeing all those little frogs. I kept them on the balcony and refreshed their water and fed them daily. Eventually I forgot about the tadpoles and one day found their dried up little bodies at the bottom of the pail. They had just morphed little legs. I stood there on the balcony in the hot afternoon sun weeping. I was a killer. I poked them a little with my finger, but they were stuck to the bottom of the pail. I sat down and thought about what to do. I was wracked with guilt. I did the only thing I could think of: I washed out the pail, put it under the sink and went outside to play. So, now that you know that I was less than an angel, I can tell you how my mum, either physically or metephorically, killed the rest of my pets.

It was a week before anyone realized that the tadpoles were missing. When asked I said, “They died,” not mentioning that I had neglected them. I suppose that mum felt bad, so she took me to the pet store and let me choose some fish. I guess that she wanted keep up the aquatic theme. I liked the gold fish, but mum liked the Siamese fighting fish (Betas). So we got 2 Betas, one red and one blue, and a tank with a glass divider in the middle. Of course I forgot to clean out the tank with great regularity. Mum would get upset with me and then a few days later, I’d forget again. One day I came home and the tank was empty. “What happened?” I asked. “You must have put too much water in the tank. The red fish got over and ate the blue fish.” “What happened to the red fish?” “Oh, well it was a terrific battle. He was mortally wounded. He had to be flushed. You wouldn’t have wanted to see it.”

Many years later, I found out that she had become sick of reminding me to clean the tank and had flushed the fish down the toilet.

A few months later, I came home talking about a parakeet that I seen. “Oh, please, please, please, I promise I’ll take care of him!” I got Petey the parakeet. He lived in the dining room near a window so he could see the grassy patch downstairs (how cruel is that?). Petey seemed happy and I did take care of him. He sang but never learned to talk. Unfortunately, we moved again and when we arrived at the new digs, Petey was among the missing. “Where’s Petey?” “I have some bad news about Petey. When the cooker was disconnected, they must have left the gas on. Petey’s dead.”

Many years later, I found out that Petey had gone to live with our neighbours. Mum didn’t actually kill Petey, but she let me think he was dead.

It was a few years before I even thought about having another pet. Then, we had a guinea pig in our classroom. I fell in love with guinea pigs. “Oh please, please, please . . .” Well, you know the drill. I did take care of Mr. Chubbs. He lived in the dining room in his little cage and I fed him, changed his water, and cleaned the bottom every day and re-filled it with the shredded New York Times classified section. Mr. Chubbs was a happy guy. Well, I thought so anyway. Then June came and I informed that I was going to have the opportunity to go to summer camp. “What a lucky kid!” I was assured. The camp was okay. There was a record-breaking heat wave, but we were making key chains, singing about Bingo the dog, and drinking orange juice that tasted of the metal tins it came out of, so we were distracted. A picture was even taken of us for the local paper. Finally, the 2 weeks were over and I went home. In the car mum said, “I have some bad news for you. Mr. Chubbs had heat stroke. I took him to a vet, but he refused to see him because he was guinea pig, can you imagine? So, I had to find another vet, but by the time we got him there, Mr. Chubbs was breathing his last. The vet worked so hard on him, but it was no use.” When we got home, I rushed to the dining room, but sure enough Mr. Chubbs wasn’t there. His cage was gone. Every sign of him was gone.

Sometime later, I found out that mum had spent those 2 weeks in a Mexican jail. She assured me that she had been trying to pass someone on the right side of the road and had gone into a ditch. Of course everyone who drives into a Mexican ditch ends up in a Mexican jail. Well, that’s what she told me. It turned out she got out just in time to come home and then pick me up at camp. Mr. Chubbs had died before she returned.

I didn’t even want to look at another pet after that. But a couple of years later one of my auntie’s came over with a daschund. His name was Irving. He had been the pet of a famously neurotic singer and she didn’t want him anymore. Would we take him? Irving became my dog to take care of and mum’s to show off. I was happy to do it. Irving preferred me to mum, and slept in my bed every night. One day I came home from school and Irving wasn’t there. “Where’s Irving?” “Well, the landlord came around today and told us that we couldn’t have a dog anymore.” “Why?” “We don’t know, but he owns the building. But we found a good home for Irving with a good family. It’s out in the valley. They have a good strong white picket fence with a nice big yard.” “Can I go see him?” “Well, we’d better let him get used to it first. We don’t want him to be unhappy, do we?” I shook my head. I was crying. A few weeks later I was told that someone had left the gate open and Irving had gotten out. He had been hit by a car, but he was going to be okay. Two days after that Irving took a turn for the worse. By the next day, he had died.

Twenty years later I found out that mum had not wanted to walk Irving that morning and had opened the door for him to take a walk. A car had run over him. There was no family. There was no white picket fence.

Later, mum bought a Rosenthal figurine of a daschund sitting and begging. It looked just like a picture I had taken of Irving. When she died, I sold it. I couldn’t bear to look at it.