So where did we leave off? Ah, yes.
Before we go any further, I need to state for the record that I do NOT have cancer.
But back in October I had a scary mammogram, was told I needed a core needle biopsy, immediately assumed I had full blown cancer, and proceeded to look on Craiglist Pets for a new friend.
For some reason when a crisis arises in my life, I feel a strong magnetic pull towards the CL Pets. It’s like I feel a storm coming, a storm that will crush us all, and I have to SAVE ALL THE ANIMALS.
A few years ago, fearing my fertile days were over, I went into a scrambling panic and I somehow convinced my husband that we needed to get a hedgehog for our children.
Because that seems like a logical gift to give to a pack of toddlers.
Also, when your maternal heart and arms are simply aching to hold a baby again, why WOULDN’T you try to remedy your raw emotion with a creature whose quills are poised to stab your ass by way of multiple simultaneous puncture wounds?!
It makes so much sense.
We named him Quilliam, a fine old name if you ask me. A nice blend of cute pun and distinguished individual with impeccable moustache.
Quilliam turned out to be neither.
His quills were very real and very sharp and very, very unwelcome against the skin of small children. I spent a lot of time yelling things like “Stop TOUCHING HIM!” And “PUT THAT DAMNED THING DOWN!”
And don’t you worry. Even though we eventually got rid of Quilliam, we didn’t gas him to death in the garage or anything. No sir. We don’t have a garage.
He wound up moving in with an eclectic old lady who owned lots and lots of little creatures whom she would hand feed, including one female hedgehog. “Don’t you worry – there won’t be any hanky panky! They’ll be in seperate cages!” She assured my husband emphatically, over and over again.
We also once – for a very brief time – rescued an American Foxhound, also from the famed CL Pets. He was a beautiful dog, very friendly…almost TOO friendly if you get my drift. Wink, wink. That dog was friendly ALL THE TIME.
I won’t get into specifics here but let’s just say that when Shiloh was in a friendly mood, before he would even strike leg…well. You would really want to thwart your eyes and look North. There was no denying it. That dog was happy to see you.
As if that weren’t already bad enough, he was always escaping. On Easter morning a few years ago, he got out of the yard and Dan chased him through the neighboring church parking lot in his pajamas during the 9 am Mass. That was an Easter that none of us will ever forget.
After that, Shiloh never stopped escaping. He began jumping over our fence like a small horse, and one day he galloped over to the home of a man running for office in our town. Shiloh walked up the steps and brazenly urinated on his porch in broad daylight. Then it became a regular habit.
Shiloh caught a real fever for urinating on the porches of unsuspecting neighbors. It became his passion. He was like an addict and could no longer resist the sweet delicious high of peeing on the doorsteps of small town America.
We couldn’t chase him around town anymore. I was pregnant with Mia and puking at the speed of lightening constantly while corralling three children six and under. I couldn’t afford to be a cab service for my dog. So Shiloh got rehomed, and we were dogless. And sad.
But that would all change in the near-ish future.