To Tapir or Not to Tapir

 

               To Tapir or Not to Tapir 

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Michelle called. “I need to take Blue to the vet in Tala tomorrow. Ana can’t come with me because she is overseeing the work crew building our new guest house. Would you be able to come along with me?”

“What time do we leave?”

Michelle picked me up. Blue, tucked in his kitty carrier, never made a peep the whole trip. Michelle and I filled the air with words covering multiple spectrums.

Background: Blue is an elderly cat, not in the best of health. Michelle feared this might be his last trip, yet, there were signs he wanted to live.

More background: Tala is an old factory town. The sugar cane processing plant pumps white steam into the air from October through May. Somewhere off the highway there is a Coca-Cola plant. In town, and it all seems to be ‘Old Town’, the streets are narrow, not laid out for modern vehicles.

Even more background: This veterinary practice specializes in small animals, mostly dogs, but will see cats too. Michelle said one time when they came, the vet was treating a horse, in the courtyard, I’m sure. The man who started the clinic had three sons, all of whom went to veterinary school and joined the thriving practice. Vets in Etzatlan mainly see to the health of cattle and horses, farm animals.

We had no more than settled down to wait our turn, when, trailed by two large dogs, in walked a man, cuddling a scruffy, long-snouted creature in his arms. Our eyes grew large as dinner plates.

“Is that a tapir?” “I think so.”

The man must have had an appointment because he was shuttled directly into a room. Michelle and I tip-toed to the open doorway, trying to get a peek. The man stood with broad back blocking our view. Reluctantly, we backed off before we became rude and intrusive. Wow, a tapir!

We left Blue in the capable hands of the vet hospital persons. His problems are being treated.

My grandson, Tyler, is a rescuer of animals and has his own rather exotic collection with their various care requirements. Tyler is set on his own pathway to become a vet. I must tell him about the tapir.

Yes, wow, a tapir! This man held the animal close in his arms, his hands comforting it. The animal was not struggling to escape, though it was moving about. So, how do you get one? I’ve never seen a tapir at Pet’s R Us. But, then, I’ve never looked.

How do you care for a tapir? This one responds to petting. Would it enjoy being brushed? Do you keep it in the house? What does it eat? I’ve never seen bags of Tapir Food at Tractor Supply or the pet supply aisle of IGA. Then, again, I’ve never looked. My Lola would never agree to such an adoption. Share her doghouse? Never, no way.

This particular tapir, if tapir it is indeed, must be a toddler. I had to look them up. These animals get quite large, are similar to wild pigs. Some varieties are bigger than others. This looked like a Mexican tapir.

On a whim, I looked up anteaters. No, I think it was a tapir. I can imagine a tapir as a pet. Not so much, the anteater. Although, feeding an anteater would be no problem. “Here you go sweet pea, a large yard. Have at it.”

I do wonder how one comes to be cuddling a tapir.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

Still February

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All in the Family

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I waved as my daughter and her family backed out of my driveway on their way back home to Marysville, Washington. The whole family, Dee Dee and her husband Chris, their daughters, Jess and Toni, dogs Cutie and Daisy, spent the last several days at my home. Well, almost the whole family—everybody but Burli. Burli, the one hundred fifty-five pound English mastiff with the self-esteem of a lap dog. Burli, who could pin me into my chair and make me laugh. Burli, with her massive face, beautiful with all its folds and wrinkles. Burli, with her drool.

Burli had been put down. She had been in continuous pain. In her last month she had lost twenty pounds. The vet figured that on top of her long list of ailments, she probably had a cancer. It had been a sad day. Everybody cried. Burli was family. Many times during their visit, our conversations turned to memories of Burli.

As a farm girl, I had ample opportunity to become fond of an animal only to discover it had disappeared from the barnyard and through a circuitous route, ended on the table. Because of this, I never had a chicken as a pet. I had much too active a role in the process of their transition from fluffy yellow chick to pullet to Sunday dinner.

However, my first experience with losing a pet was my own pig, Jasper. I killed him. I was eight years old. It was a rainy day in early spring. We lived on a small farm in southern Indiana with several acres of woods. Mayapples, with leaves the size and shape of small umbrellas, grew there in profusion. I asked my dad if I could gather mayapple leaves to feed my pet pig. The mayapple is also called the hogapple. Their little fruit ripens in early fall and the hogs seem to find them a delicacy. My dad said yes. I made trip after trip into the woods, gathering armloads of mayapple leaves and tossing them over the fence into the pigpen where Jasper lived with seven other handsome Yorkshire weaner pigs.

I loved Jasper. I would hang over the fence for hours scratching Jasper’s pink back and talking to him, unloading my eight-year-old troubles. Jasper wriggled in appreciation, grunted, sighed, and burped. Once I had heaved a small mountain of leaves into the pigpen, I headed to the house to peel potatoes for supper, leaving Jasper and the other seven porkers noisily rooting through the tender green delicacy.

The following morning my dad woke me early and motioned me to get dressed. I followed him to the barnyard. There lay my own Jasper, bloated, belly up, legs in the air. Around the other side of the leaf pile, the other seven pigs sprawled in the same position. All dead. I had killed them.

I cried and cried. My Dad stood with his hand on my shoulder. He never said a punishing word to me. After all, I had asked and he had given me permission to feed the mayapple leaves to the pigs. He had not known the leaf of the mayapple was poisonous.

I have had pets much of my life. Pinky, my first cat. Flopsie, my first dog. Pete and Repete, my daughter’s Chinese hooded rats. Houdini, my son’s gerbil,which I nearly killed one night when he escaped his cage and snuggled under my chin to sleep in my warmth. Horses, more cats, more dogs, and even more rats. Some died. Some disappeared. Twice I held dogs in my arms while the vet put them down. Whether we intend it or not, our pets become family.

My own two cats, Penguina and Fat Louie, did not welcome our visitors, especially five-year old Toni and the dogs, with the same enthusiasm I did. Penguina holed up beneath my garden cabin and only emerged in the dead of night to come to the house for a bite to eat. Fat Louie eventually tolerated the children and the dogs. Now my kids, grandkids and their pets are gone. The house is awfully quiet. Penguina is peacefully asleep beneath the cutting table in my shop. Fat Louie is curled in my garden basket, under the bench out my back door.

Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
September 1, 2011
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