Fancy & Russian

photo of Dumbledore (the light grey one) and Twitch (the black one) by Rachel Salois


When Allyson brought home a pair of fancy Russian hamsters (that’s actually what they’re called) last week, I was able to reaffirm my belief that I have no soul when it comes to cute animals.

What Allyson sees as cute companions requiring nurturing love, I see as living cotton balls that provide poop and a weird odor to the corner of our living room. I know it sounds harsh, but it’s part of my DNA to not enjoy the company of animals. My grandmother, Judy, hated pets, and my mom repeats the mantra “last cat, last dog,” anytime Milo or Fuzby acts out or pleads for food after she has already sat down to read the paper.

It’s not that I would neglect an animal or cause it physical harm; I just don’t see their point. I understand how a fancy Russian hamster can be cute, but not cute enough for me to want to pay $40 to enjoy its cuteness from the comfort of my own home. In fact, at this stage of my life, I can’t think of anything cute enough for me to be willing to pick up its poop.

It’s definitely the poop most of all that gets me. I sometimes lose my appetite when I eat too close to the hamsters, because I get a whiff of the sawdust from the bottom of their cage and can’t think about anything but tiny poop pellets. I am now paranoid of hamster poop being on the chair or coffee table from when Allyson takes them out to play.

I know I’m in the minority here. Most people have fond memories of childhood pets and many of my friends dream about one day being able to buy a dog for their apartment. But to all of the animal lovers in the world: know that just because I can stand your pet, doesn’t mean I love it. And just because I don’t love to spend time with hamsters doesn’t mean I’m not a nice person. Mostly I don’t want to be spending time with your pet because I would rather be spending time with you!

And to Allyson: thanks for cleaning the hamster cage. You have no idea how much I love to not smell those guys.

Dogs in Rain Jackets Driving Dirt Bikes

Photo by Rachel Salois










You know those crazy people who dress up their dogs in rain jackets, and think that dogs can actually taste the difference between name-brand and store-brand kibbles, and refer to other people’s dogs by family relation, (such as, “Isn’t this dog Snuggie adorable? I just bought it for my step-grand-dog, Poochie.”)

I realized a few days ago I am one of them. Sort of.

Last summer I got a plant named Shorty. Shorty is a six-inch tall fir tree with three branches. He lives in a terra cotta pot with his companion, a plastic penguin. He is easy going, reliable, and doesn’t make a fuss if you don’t water him over the weekend.

After Shorty, there were more: an orchid, a Chinese elm bonsai, two grapefruit trees, and “the salad bar” which is the windowsill garden in our apartment. Over the past nine months I have collected nine plants.

I am obsessed with them. I graze them with my fingers every day, checking for dead leaves. I buy them fancy soil. I tell people long stories about them. I bring them with me when I travel. And if they all died, I might cry.

When my fish, Ramone, died last year, I didn’t cry. When we thought my cat, Milo, died I didn’t cry, (which is good because she had actually just run away for a few weeks.) So what is it about plants that makes me in love with them?

Most of the reason is their personality. Most pets are needy and expensive: food, haircuts, liver medicine. But plants are practical. All of their necessities cost approximately $0. Like me, plants are quiet and methodical in the morning when I water them. They grow in funny and unexpected ways. Sometimes they spurt up quick and sometimes they lose all their leaves in a week.

My plants make me who I am. They’re not very valuable and I have about 12 years to wait until I pick my first fresh grapefruit, but I wouldn’t be the same without them.

When you think about it, everyone has an obsession. My dad is obsessed with dirt bikes. Normally, he is a very frugal spender. He only buys jeans if they cost less than $20. But every year when we ask him what he would like for his birthday he says, “oh, don’t worry about it. I’ve already ordered an exhaust pipe from Motor World.”

My sister spends her money on plane tickets. My best friend, Allyson, is a crazy dog person. (The difference between rain-jacket-dog-people and Allyson, though, is that Allyson doesn’t like dogs because they give her an excuse to buy dog-purses. She likes them because they offer her an uncomplicated type of companionship that people simply can’t replicate.)

In reality, we all have our obsessions. They’re ridiculous and illogical and they’re frustrating when no one else truly understands them, but they make us happy. And since they are so misunderstood by the rest of the world, they depend on us to defend them.