When it comes to animals (and lovers thereof), I've learned it's not OK to be neutral. Because my daughter is crazy about mammals that have yet to form the habit of speech, a few times a week I am confronted by the presence of these enigmatic creatures and asked to respond as if I'm falling in love after the birth of my own (albeit woolly) child. When I don't fawn over the clutter of kittens languishing behind glass at the animal shelter or rub the bellies of the pack of dogs that greet us at the barn where Poppy rides a pony called Tapdance, I am pegged as a heartless man who hates anything with four legs other than furniture. To me, this labeling is unfair and off the mark. I feel the same about animals as I do about blind chess matches and fairs where people dress up (and overeat) like extras in some failed
Lord of the Rings
movie. They're fine-no more and no less.
I love my daughter and don't want people viewing me as some sort of pet persecutor, so I've placed myself in the
manure-covered paths of these beasts more than a few times. When need be, I help Poppy tack (or untack) Tapdance, and I'm happy to endure the teeth and tongue of a Lipizzan as he snatches an apple from my hand. I even learned how to lunge Tappy, a skill quite different from the lunges people perform in front of a mirror at a gym. I won't bore you with details; needless to say, it involves a horse, a long leash, a whip and verbal commands that borrow their intonation from the
March of the Wooden Soldiers
soundtrack.
My latest in a string of embracing-my-inner-animal episodes has been walking a sheep. The owners of the farm where Poppy rides seem to be on a quest to outdo Noah even without signs of a flood. They have dogs, cats, birds, fish and various other types of wildlife
that scamper freely on their land. After a visit to the county fair, they came home with an ewe they named Vienna, and, since they are vegetarians, I'm sure it's not after those Lilliputian sausages crammed in tin cans.
The sheep doesn't do much besides bleat and encourage the horse in its pen to overeat to the point of colic. Poppy, of course, adores the sheep and thought we should do something with it. I'm not sure exactly what she had in mind-board games or 20 Questions-but when I heard the ruminant quadruped actually had a halter, I ended up on the arse end of a sweater maker who didn't know why we were on a walkabout either. As I waited patiently for Vienna to ambulate, Poppy offered her words of encouragement, but even my little Miss Jane Goodall became perplexed when the ewe passed on the abundant grass and weeds before her. So we all kind of stood there-me holding a limp leash, Poppy the sheep shearleader (sans pompoms) and Vienna the confused object of our attention. What's a modern man to do but cut his losses and drag a pet sheep back home?
As we were approaching the pen, Larry the farm manager was coming to help unshackle Vienna and secure her back in her turnout. Larry is a true cowboy, the kind who unknowingly makes city slickers like me feel ashamed of hands made soft from years of office work (and moisturizing creams).
"How'd it go?" he asked, unbuckling the little Hannibal Lecter mask from Vienna's mug.
"OK, I guess," I said sheepishly. "I can't say I ever imagined I'd be walking an animal like this."
"I was thinking the same thing just the other day."
Somehow his confession made me feel better, if only for a moment.
"Anyway, wait till next week." Larry looked at me sideways. "We're getting a cow."
Robert Wilder's first book is
Daddy Needs A Drink
,
.
