Keith Hernandez, SNY.tv | Twitter |
I've discovered, as I'm sure most of you have, that the quarantine has slowly but surely driven most people to varying degrees of distraction. Patience is running thin, and people want to begin socializing and being productive again. This has particularly impacted people who are living alone, and those without pets.
In my opinion, there is no overestimating the value of a pet. And by pet, I'm referring to dogs and cats. I don't include hamsters, guinea pigs, or the occasional python in this group, because they, in my opinion, do not provide the love and emotional support that a dog or cat can (You're free to disagree with me; I am not imposing my beliefs on anyone). Dogs and cats have always been an important part of my life and my home.
I have a few childhood memories of my family's first pet, a dog named Tex. She was a mixed breed, mainly Welsh Corgi. My first remembrances of Tex when I was a young boy are vague. I never really bonded with her, since she was older and an outdoor dog, but she was always part of the family. I remember that my brother Gary and I had to take turns feeding her Skippy dog food in the garage where she slept in at night, curled up in a cushioned bed that my dad had made for her. Tex developed a malignant tumor on her stomach, which eventually forced Dad to have to put her down. But not before she had one last litter: only one pup.
Gary and I begged Dad to keep the puppy to replace Tex, but he refused and gave her to the local pet store. I would ride my bike every day, sometimes with Gary, to see her in a cage in the window. We would cry our eyes out as the puppy recognized us and begged with both paws for us to rescue her. One day we rode up to the window, and the pup was gone. I hope the puppy found a nice home. A few months later, I told Dad about all of this and how upset I was. He said, "Why didn't you tell me? I would have kept her."
Around a year later, we acquired our second pet, a cat this time: a full-blooded Persian male. The Alexanders (Gary and Mary) had recently moved into our neighborhood, and they bred Persian cats. One summer night, we got a call from Mary telling us that her female cat was about to give birth. We all hustled over to their house across the street and were immediately ushered into the garage where I watched the birth of her litter of six or seven kittens. What an experience. There was something beautiful about that. I have a lasting visual of this ingrained in my mind. Then, Mary asked my parents if they would like one. With coaxing and prodding from Gary and me, Mom and Dad agreed, and Mary said we could have the pick of the litter.
When the kittens were weaned, we made our selection. We chose the most beautiful cat of all, a fluffy tiger orange, with a white chest, underside and paws. We had a family meeting on what to name him. I was at a loss, but being of the age of young boys reading adventure novels, Gary came up with the perfect name: Sinbad!
Sinbad was an outdoor cat who came and went as he pleased. Growing up in Linda Mar Valley in California, with all those open spaces, pastures and artichoke fields, Sinbad must have really felt like the fictitious Sinbad the Sailor of literature.
I have many fond memories of Sinbad as a kitten, mischievous and full of energy. It was great fun tantalizing him with a ball of yarn or our fingers, as he got in the attack position, tail flicking back and forth, tiny eyes focused intently, then the quick pounce. He was all male and got in fights over territory, but at the same time he was demanding of Gary's and my attention, which we lavished upon him.
One time Sinbad came home and when Mom picked him up, there was blood on her hands. Sinbad had been in a fight and evidently his lung was punctured. The vet prescribed an antibiotic and told us to confine Sinbad until he healed. We put him into the master bathroom. It was an unseasonably hot summer, and we had the smallish bathroom window open. The window had a screen and was set high above the commode.
Well, Sinbad must have leaped up and powered his way through that screen. He was gone. We were devastated. The veterinarian said that he would either go off to die, or he would heal and survive. Weeks passed with no sign of Sinbad. Then one afternoon, with Mom in the kitchen, we all heard a very loud and demanding meow from outside the house. And there was Sinbad! Talk about look what the cat dragged in!
Sinbad was as lean as could be, with his fur all matted, and he was terribly hungry. Of course we were amazed. We had all but assumed he was dead, but obviously old Sinbad was made of stronger stock. The household rejoiced and smothered Sinbad with love and affection for days.
Sinbad did this once before in his early youth, running off for weeks. The vet told us the same story: Sinbad is a tomcat, so he needs to go out and see what the world is all about -- his rite of passage. Once again we had all but given him up for dead, until one day he showed up at the back door demanding to come in as if nothing had happened.
Gary tells a story of Sinbad basking in the sun on our front yard fence-line. My father had built this fence himself, and it was designed in the Western style, as if our home were a ranch. There were five rectangular brick pillars that stood approximately four feet in height, two feet square in width, each precisely 10 feet apart. The pillars were connected horizontally, one above the other, by two 4x4 wood beams, stained a dark mahogany. We always used to sit on those pillars, but for Sinbad, the top of a pillar made a perfect perch for him to sprawl. I guess the elevation gave him a sense of security.
Well, one day a very large dog came along and charged toward Sinbad at full gallop. Gary said that Sinbad never budged from his lofty position atop the pillar until the dog was 10 feet away, but then he sprang into action instantly. Sinbad leaped with lightning quickness upon the dog's back and dug in with all of his claws. The dog yelped and turned tail, with Sinbad riding bronco for about three seconds before he jumped off. The large dog sprinted for safety as if it were being hounded by a bunch of screaming banshees. Sinbad was truly a remarkable cat.
I remember several years after I left home and went off to play ball, Dad called to let me know that Sinbad had passed away. He had waited for an off day to tell me, not wishing to upset me on the day of a game. I didn't mourn Sinbad for long because I was busy with the baseball season, plus I had been away from home for so long. Sinbad lived to 16, and I knew that he had a glorious life filled with adventure and love.
During my high school days in Millbrae, Calif., with Mom fading away daily as dementia took control of her mind, Dad purchased a solid black Maltese mix pup and named this curly little fuzzball Mitzi. Dad loved that dog that grew to only 15 pounds, and he spoiled her immensely. Dad was always feeding her from the table as Mitzi did her begging, or should I say praying routine, sitting upright on her haunches, front legs together at the paws, motioning up and down while whimpering for a morsel. Dad was an old softy with that dog. He would take her for long walks every day. She was 100 percent Dad's dog, and I saw how much the love and companionship of this tiny animal meant to him at this stage of life, with his sons leaving the nest and his beloved wife transformed by illness.
When Mitzi died in my dad's arms much later, Dad called me in New York sobbing. I tried to console him for several minutes to no avail. Now that was a great shock to me because Dad was never a man to show his softer side. As a matter of fact, I can't remember my father ever crying, not even when his beloved mother Lita died. He was always contained. Something about the love of a dog had opened his heart completely.
So there you have my formative years growing up with dogs and cats, not to mention all the neighbors' pets as well. I can't remember ever being afraid of any dog in the neighborhood, let alone the whole of Linda Mar Valley. Thinking about it, this was the late 1950s. World War II had ended just 10 years earlier. Most of the fathers in the neighborhood were veterans of that war, who, like my dad, had bought their homes with the GI Bill loans provided by the federal government in gratitude for their service. They got back to normal life, starting their families: their offspring would be labeled the "Baby Boomers." I am a member of this generation. The dogs in the neighborhood were members of every family and a big part of our normal day when Gary and I were growing up with our friends. We'd explore deep into the valley with more than a few dogs hiking with us. We loved them all.
I graduated from high school in 1971, and the next year I went off to play professional baseball. I was gone from mid-March to mid-September. I didn't have the money to rent an apartment, so I stayed home with Mom and Dad until I was 23 in 1976. I had no pet of my own during this period of my life because I couldn't manage the responsibility as a single professional baseball player with all the travel involved.
When I got married in January 1978, my then-wife Sue had a daughter from a previous marriage. Jessie was four years old at the time. When Melissa was born in 1980, I wanted my kids to have the experience of growing up with pets. So, one day, seven-year-old Jessie and I were walking through the local mall in the offseason, when we walked into the pet store. There was a beautiful Golden Retriever in a pen at the very back of the store. He was almost too old to be sold, and I hated the thought of what would happen to him if no one took him home.
On the spur of the moment, I purchased this honey-colored dog with a beautiful smile and melting eyes. Jessie was overjoyed. I had to carry him over the threshold that separated the mall from the pet store. He would not walk out on his own because he had been trained not to exit the store. Once we got him home, we named him Slider after that notorious baseball pitch.
On Slider's second day at home with us, I let him off leash. We had recently bought a home just beyond the suburbs of St. Louis in Christmas Valley, which was full of hills, streams, and woods. In the early 1980s there were acres of wilderness with very few homes. Once I took Slider off leash, he looked up at me questioningly for a second, and then he turned and bolted. We alerted the neighborhood, which consisted of only six other homes scattered through the valley. I searched far and wide for Slider, screaming his name, but there was no response.
After hours of frantic searching, I finally gave up. I thought we would never see Slider again. Jessie was in tears, and I was devastated. But about two weeks later, just like Sinbad, Slider turned up at our doorstep with matted fur, all covered with ticks and smelling to the high heavens. We were all amazed and overjoyed. The vet told us that Golden Retrievers are prone to running off. He recommended neutering Slider. He felt it would diminish Slider's wandering urge, and it did. Slider never ran off again, and he was a wonderful companion for the kids, and of course for me.
In the winter on clear nights when there was snow on the ground and the moon was full or nearly full, Jessie, Slider and I would go for long walks up that rocky stream. Jessie has fond memories of those walks. She loved them, so did I, and I know that for Slider, these walks were the next best thing to heaven.
Jessie had one experience on her own with Slider that she relayed to me. She was riding her bike along the only two-lane road that snaked through Christmas Valley. There was a big home with a large fenced-in pasture inhabited by two or three horses. The owner had a medium-sized dog that was belligerent whenever anyone passed the property. He would race out to the fence, barking and looking ferocious.
One day Jessie was returning home on her bike. She had to pass the property on her way, and that dog raced out past the fence and stood in the road, blocking her path. Jessie was terrified, but out of the blue, here came Slider, sprinting to her aid. Slider fought that dog, allowing Jessie to pass. A few minutes after, Slider came home, with a bit of blood on his ear and face, licking Jessie. Slider! Jessie's hero!
When I separated from my wife and kids in the winter of 1983, I also had to say goodbye to Slider. I remember embracing him with tears in my eyes. He wouldn't be a part of my life from then on as I was traded that past summer in June to the Mets. Slider lived to a ripe old age, and he was loved every minute of his life from the day I brought him home on an impulse to save his life. He was blind in the end, but he was always a good dog.
Slider left a wonderful legacy with my three daughters. All of my kids love animals to this day. Jessie's family has a beloved rescue dog. Her kids are growing up with dogs, and my youngest daughter Mary has two cats, a stately white cat named Bella who is 12 years old, and a feisty tiger-striped kitten named Prince . Melissa doesn't have a pet because she travels constantly for her job. But she is currently in Manhattan and absolutely adores my cat, Hadji. Whenever I call her on FaceTime, she always wants to see Hadji. She never forgets to mention that if anything happened to me, she would take Hadji and care for him.
What I set out to do with the purchase of Slider was a complete success regarding my children. For them, just like for me, life is incomplete without animals.
From 1983 to 2001, I went without a trusty, faithful companion. First I was absorbed by and consumed with my career, and then there were years of wondering what I was going to do with my post-baseball life after I retired in 1991. The thought of taking on the responsibility for a pet never crossed my mind. Then I met my second wife, Kai, and she brought with her two cats: a golden Bengal named Jasper, and shy little Lily, a Russian Blue. That was fine with me. Jasper was easy, but Lily was resistant and unwilling to trust me for the longest time. It took me a year and a half to finally win her over. And what a happy day that was. It was a gradual process and it took a lot of patience, but I finally won her over.
In the meantime, Kai gave me a silver Bengal for Christmas in 2002. This cat is the famous Hadji who is still here with me. Shortly after Hadji joined our household, we decided to get a dog, a large dog. We researched high and low for the right breed. I told Kai about Slider and how wonderful retrievers were: loyal, loving, great with family, friends and kids.
One late night in a bed and breakfast in the mountains of Colorado, we were channel searching and ended up watching a British dog show. The dog that won Best in Show was a Flat-Coated Retriever, a breed we had never heard of before, but we both fell in love with the beauty and spirit of this dog. We decided upon a beautiful male Flat-Coated Retriever puppy, and after months of searching, we found our puppy in Oklahoma.
Flat Coats are the earliest retrieving breed, and originally they were Scottish birddogs -- a mix of Newfoundlands, and all varieties of retrieving dogs and water dogs, from Gordon Setters, Irish Setters, etc. Flat Coats are web-footed, great swimmers, and have long snouts and soft mouths to carry those birds, with a bony crown atop their long heads. Midnight black and precious, we named our puppy Duncan after that good Scottish king who was murdered by that treacherous Shakespearian duo, MacBeth and Lady MacBeth.
When Hadji stepped foot in the house for the first time, he walked in like a conquering Roman general. Jasper was not happy and retreated to the bathroom howling like a sad wolf, but eventually he adjusted and enjoyed the companionship of his new silver brother. Lily was a loner, so it didn't have much of an effect on her, except when the two males bullied her from time to time. I quickly put a halt to that, and Lily knew that I was her protector. When Duncan joined the clan as a puppy, the cats set their boundaries and before long, they all got along swimmingly.
When I got divorced, I had to say goodbye to Duncan, but I kept Hadji. I really missed Duncan and grieved for quite some time. I never really got over our separation. Duncan died of cancer at age 8 1/2 in October of 2012. I got a chance to see him a month before he was put down to say my last goodbye. He recognized me and showered me with kisses. It was an emotional moment for me, one I never want to experience again.
Today, only Hadji remains as Jasper and Lily have passed on. But since my ex-wife and I have reconciled, she brought with her another Flat-Coated Retriever. She told me about her desire for another in 2014, during our separation. We decided on another historically famous Scottish figure, Gordon. Gordon the Flat Coat is named after the famous British general of Scot blood, Charles George Gordon.
Gordon and Hadji get along like brothers, just like Duncan did with Hadji and the other cats. So here I am today, surrounded once again with a dog and cat.
I hope that I didn't bore you with my history of the special animals in my life. I love to write, and we all have lots of time on our hands due to this current pandemic. I hope that those of you who have pets are finding solace with your companions. They are a comfort to us all, loyal and true, showering us with unconditional love. The world would be a lonely place without them.
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