New pets from land, sea and air

When I was growing up on the Killough Valley farm in the Ozark hills over yonder, animals weren't considered pets, no matter how domesticated they were.

Even dogs and cats had jobs. Dogs were supposed to bark at strangers. Cats were supposed to control the mice.

Horses were for riding to check on fences or round up cattle. Cows were for milk or hamburger. Chickens were for drumsticks and eggs.

My least favorite were the hogs. But even our farm pigs had a purpose: to pay for my first year of college. I still taste a tinge of finals and algebra whenever I eat bacon.

The dogs and cats we had on the farm were, for the most part, miserable failures at their jobs. The dogs barked at every car that came down the dusty gravel road, even ours. The mouse army repeatedly overran the feline sentries.

Out of the entire farm menagerie, I liked the cats the best. And I still do. Unfortunately, my wife is seriously allergic to cats. She has valiantly tried to live with cats over the years. She put up with Blackie for 19 years while he grew up with our sons. More recently she endured Miss Kitty, the tortoise-shell beauty that was the smartest animal I've ever known -- and well-mannered and thoughtful and considerate and optimistic and entertaining.

Eventually, the allergist's warnings prevailed, and the cat was taken in by a couple who promised as much love and affection for the cat as she had given us. If that did not happen, we do not want to know.

It is the absence of a cat that prompts me to be an advocate for wild birds. At least, that's my explanation.

The payoff for taking care of wild birds, as many of you already know, is the joy of seeing a rare visitor from time to time, like this week's indigo bunting and, for two days in a row, a rose-breasted grosbeak.

This year, the mesh bag of thistle seed has been overrun by goldfinches. Never mind that the same bag hung on or near our house for nearly two years without being touched by a bird. Early this spring I hung the bag from a branch of the volunteer mimosa tree, and the goldfinches think they have found nirvana. Go figure.

Another development this spring has been the addition of goldfish to the fountain on the patio. We've only had them two weeks, and they are just now figuring out that when I stand nearby it probably means food will be falling from heaven. I am, to the fish, the Manna Man.

Now it looks like the Sullivan compound may be acquiring a cat, too.

Wait a minute, Joe. You said your wife is allergic to cats.

And wait a minute, Joe. Do you really want a cat around your birds and fish?

OK. Let me explain.

Our birds are virtually catproof. They have been well-trained by our neighbor's cats, who think the birds at our feeders should be easy prey. Fortunately for our birds, our neighbor's cats are lousy hunters. Or lazy. It's not like they're starving.

And our fish have plenty of places to hide -- a survival technique they seemed to have learned well after the raccoon's visit the second night after their arrival in our fountain. The mystery of fish No. 3 will never be entirely solved, but the raccoon is getting all the blame.

And the cat we have in mind is an outdoor cat, which passes the wife-tolerance test.

None of these animals, by the way, has any required duties. The pleasure they give us is enough.

R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.