I have had a lot of pets in my time. Some were easier to take care of than a cat or a dog, like my Kashmiri pet rock, a pair of rubber plants called Horatio and Willibald and Teddy the Bear. I felt truly, deeply, madly about each object of my attention that I fostered, lavishing on them the same sort of love and care I did on myself. Oftentimes I smothered them with over-the-top extravagance. And I got a lot in return, mostly unquestioning, silent affection and steadfast loyalty and companionship.
It all began when I was very young. My parents gave me Teddy, a hairless and very huggable stuffed bear with brightly buttoned eyes and a cheery smile. He was occasionally pushed aside for Polly, a baby doll with a squishy middle who made strange noises when she was squeezed. But Teddy always came back to prime position, taking over my pillow and my heart easily. At regular intervals, Teddy lost bits of himself to my grubby loving. His arms were stitched back carefully, his nose patched on again, his eyes stuck into their places every now and then. Today, he sits in a bookshelf just above my bed, his button-eyes glinting with a secret knowledge of my history, holding court with his acolytes – three trolls, one big and bald, the other two shock-mopped and bug-eyed – nestled against his spread-wide arms.
Years later, when I was a young adult, I got KPR. He (since I was a girl, pets had to be a ‘he’) was smoothly oval, with a slightly flattened surface and a tiny dent on one end that was perfect for his function: to crack nuts. We were on holiday in Kashmir and my parents had bought a bagful of walnuts for me to munch through. On a walk in the snow-topped mountains, I found KPR - Kashmiri pet rock to the mystified. His surface glittered in the sun, sprinkled with molecules of mica…or was it diamonds? His rounded side showed a slim streak of paler stone and his tiny dip, belly-button-like, had a special gleam that could have come from years of smoothing by glacial movement. I liked to think so, at least! KPR came back to Mumbai with me, and was carefully placed on the bookshelf in my bedroom. He and I chatted many hours…and then I went back to college. KPR was last seen cuddled against the giant cactus that lived with us since perhaps before I was born. I hope he has a good owner now.
In college in Colorado I acquired two rubber plants, which was one step up in the pet-evolution process for me. They were alive, they grew, they did respond to various stimuli, I knew. As my roommate and I carried the pots into our tiny dorm room, we attracted a great deal of attention. People stared, then clustered around to find out what manner of exotica was wandering the halls. The plants were not overly large, but their dark green, fleshy leaves and their owner – me, with big, kohl-lined eyes and a long braid – added to the aura of eastern mystery that was so unusual in the remote reaches of the Rocky Mountains. Soon, and regularly thereafter, I had a crowd in the room, all wanting to meet me and my plants. We held a solemn meeting to christen them, but almost all names suggested were rejected. My green friends just did not look like Sofia, Fred, Fidel or Savaranola. They needed a cachet that was unique, very un-plant-like. (A later sprig would be a plant called Robert, a name of provenance not understood by many, but familiar to listeners of classic rock, Led Zeppelin style.) After much to-ing and fro-ing and cross chatter, a Norwegian dorm-mate came up with the perfect titles. They had a touch of tough Teutonic straight-backed-ness to them and worked great for me…and my plants. The bigger one was Horatio; the runt, Willibald. They stayed with me as long as I was in Colorado, and now live with my best friend and her monster-cat. I visit them whenever I can.
Since then I have had a cat. He was a lot more fun.
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