I was lucky to be born into an animal-loving family -- especially, my grandmother.
My grandmother grew up on a farm in Ireland. Not only did she value and appreciate animals, but she also had "down home" knowledge about how to care for and treat any creature who was suffering or injured.
Once, when I was around 8-years old, I found a pigeon with a broken wing.
I scooped up the injured bird and brought him home with me.
My mother was skittish around animals other than dogs and didn't know what to do.
But, my grandmother looked at the pigeon, immediately figured out how to treat and commanded me to run to the grocery and buy a couple of popsicles.
She then delicately prepared a splint for the pigeon out of popsicle sticks.
We kept "Chipper" in a large, cardboard box on our fire escape lined with papers, towel and plenty of food.
As the weeks passed, Chipper's wing began to heal and my grandmother removed the splints. He then tested out his flying skills by flying through the halls of our apartment.
I can still remember my mother screaming, "Jesus, its like having a BAT! Eeeeeh, get him out of here!"
But, as the winter turned to spring, nature issued its call to Chipper and completely healed, he eventually flew away.
But, Chipper did not go far.
He found a mate and remained around the trees and yards in back of our building for years.
When wanting to say "Hi" or "thanks" to my grandmother for saving him, Chipper periodically dropped by our window for a special treat and to let us know he was OK.
About a year following Chipper's rescue, I found a stray cat and brought her home.
Once again, my mother was nervous and afraid as she knew nothing about cats. (Cats were not a common apartment pet in the 50's. This was in the days before cat litter and spay/neuter.)
But, my grandmother ridiculed my mother's fears ("What's the matter with you? Its just a CAT for Chrissakes!") "Nanny" created a litter box from an old baking pan, lined it with newspapers and immediately warmed up a bowl of milk for the new household pet.
Fortunately, cat tuna was available in those days. And "Kitty Kelly" would spend the next 16 years of her life dining on tuna and leftovers and getting her bowl of warmed up milk every day (which she daintily consumed by dipping her paw in the milk and licking it off).
When my grandmother's 17-year-old shepherd mix died in 1956, relatives gave to her their one-year-old, purebred Cocker Spaniel as a "gift."
But, "Taffy" had issues.
Primary among them was biting people who attempted to pet him.
Taffy bit everyone who came into the apartment -- including my mother and myself.
As much as my mother was afraid of Taffy and wanted him gone, Nanny wouldn't hear of it.
"Don't be such a BABY! You just have to understand and be patient with him!"
I eventually learned to understand Taffy. He didn't like hands coming towards his face and was basically a "fear biter." I learned to pet Taffy sparingly and only on the sides. I also learned that Taffy loved to run.
Many nights I ran with Taffy up and down the streets of New York City. And on those nights I wasn't running with the "crazy" Cocker Spaniel, my grandmother would take us both for long walks and buy me an ice cream cone at "Addie Vallens." (I still remember those sumptuous pistachio and coffee ice cream cones!)
And so we kept the biting spaniel for the seven years that Taffy lived, eventually succumbing to cancer.
And though my mother was almost sued when Taffy bit a woman on the street and everyone said we should have "gotten rid of" him, my grandmother remained steadfast in her devotion to him and was totally heartbroken when Taffy died. She was inconsolable.
The fact is, Nanny was the one person Taffy never bit.
I think about all these memories today because, although coming from an animal-loving family, both, my grandmother and uncle occasionally liked to fish.
Once when I was around seven, my aunt and uncle invited my grandmother and me to their summer home at fire Island.
I loved the ocean and spending the summer at Fire Island was a huge treat.
But, it turned into a somewhat "traumatic" experience one day when my grandmother and uncle took me fishing with them at the bay dock. My uncle pulled a little snapper fish out of the water. The fish flopped all over the wooden dock and I imagined it struggling for breath and "drowning."
I immediately broke away and ran screaming and crying to my grandmother. "Stop it, stop it! The fish can't breathe!"
Though my grandmother attempted to comfort and console me, I never went fishing with her or my uncle again. Rather, we elected never to speak about the subject from that point on, while still maintaining the integrity, love and respect of the relationships.
To this day, I don't like the sight of struggling fish pulled out of water and usually look away.
But, I also understand that nature itself is harsh and little fish get eaten by big fish all the time.
Neither my grandmother nor uncle were cruel people and both truly loved animals.
But, for some reason, that love or what some might say, "hyper sensitivity" to animal suffering went a little further in myself.
Yesterday, I wrote a critical blog entry against what I perceive to be, the cruelties and "abuses" of some fishing in city parks.
Perhaps I just don't understand the appeal of fishing, though am very familiar with the accolades and promotions for it. ("Relaxing, recreation, time with friends or family, outdoors," etc,, etc.)
I think I have simply never liked the idea of doing to others (animals or humans) what I would not like done to myself -- with the exceptions of self-defense.
So, no, I don't like fishing, but understand that some people do -- including my own beloved family members and other loved ones.
What makes the fishing in parks intolerable (to me) is when rules are ignored and broken and the fishing causes harm to the fish and other wildlife -- especially carelessly discarded fishing lines that ensnare birds.
Whether one likes or engages in fishing or not, it seems reasonable to expect and require that the laws and rules that govern it in city parks be respected and obeyed. Even my grandmother and uncle (God rest their loving souls) would agree with that.
My grandmother died in 1969, my mother in 1996 and my uncle in 2007.
Rarely a day goes by that I don't think about and miss them.
My grandmother, especially, had a way with animals and a deep, abiding love for them -- though I don't recall Nanny ever actually using the word, "love" -- even to me or her own daughter.
Its interesting how culture changes over the generations and decades.
Then again, "love" is a verb requiring and shown in action rather than declaration.
My grandmother lived love rather than actually ever speaking it. -- PCA
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