PET-SCAN: PEPPER, TARBABY, PEPPER II, TARBABY II, & EBONY

© 2007 James A. Harris

My first pet was a cute little rolly-polly Cocker Spaniel puppy named Pepper. He was one of Sugar's babies that we brought with us when we moved from Cincinnati, Ohio to Keezletown, Virginia, in the summer of 1951. Mom and Dad (mostly Dad, I suspect) thought it would ease the transition of the four of us kids if we brought the puppies with us. There was Sugar, the family dog, who was the color of light brown sugar, and her four puppies in a variety of colors, one of which was black. There were four of us kids also. The oldest was Hugh, age fourteen, not at all happy to be transitioning from city kid to country bumpkin, then Sis (Merle Toy, named after both grandmothers), she was nine, and happy to be anywhere I was, her little baby brother that she so liked to carry everywhere! There was also Paul, age seven, and severely physically handicapped. And there was me, age two-and-a-half, and full of excitement, eager for the new adventure.

My parents soon discovered that four growing puppies were very hungry, and the cost of their food, plus the difficulties of caring for them, made keeping them nearly impossible. Perhaps the other three children understood why their puppies had to be given away, but I did not. Pepper was given to a family that lived just three-quarters of a mile down the road, but it might as well have been to someone on the west coast, I was so devastated.

I was told that we could visit Pepper any time we wanted, and finally my parents relented, and on a Saturday morning a few months after I gave him up we went down to see my Pepper. The family met us at the door with worried faces: Pepper had been struck and killed by a car the day before. Now I was irreconcilable. I was so angry at my parents, and even though I was only 3 at the time, I let them know over and over that I was hurt by this, very hurt.

Finally, in the early summer of the year I turned 4 my Dad came home from work carrying a little bundle of blackness. At first I was disappointed that it was a cat and not a dog. But Dad explained how cats are easier to care for, and that they are very affectionate. We could not afford another dog, but we could afford a cat. In fact, he said, she would "pay" us for letting her stay by killing small snakes, rats and mice for us. I was sold. Mom said I could name her anything I wanted, and I think she expected me to name her "Pepper," but I chose "Tarbaby" instead, because I loved Uncle Remus and the tales of Br'er Rabbit.

Tarbaby was truly my cat. She lived for 19 years, and when she was old and about to die, she wandered off into the woods. I was living in Cincinnati at the time, and never got to say goodbye. My mom was at the kitchen sink and saw her walk slowly, painfully, off into the woods by our house. She never returned.

When I was four and Tarbaby was not much more than a kitten I could do anything with her. I was often seen carrying her against my side, my arm across her tummy and her legs dangling in space. No one else could carry her like this, only me. We were nearly inseparable in my growing up years; in fact, I think we grew up together. There were no other kids close by, so Tarbaby became my best friend, the one to whom I entrusted all of my secrets.

I cannot think of her now, more then 50 years after Dad gave her to me, without feeling wistful. Years later my first wife did the sweetest thing. Our Yorkshire dog, Sadie, gave birth to a litter of pups. We gave them to various friends (they were not burebred puppies, their daddy being of undetermined origin), but one she pretended to give to her sister, a black one, which she saved for me. I was so pleased when she said he was mine, and yes, I named him Pepper. He was a delight. We played, and I was a kid again, at nearly 30 years of age.

She took Pepper to her sister's house to play with one of his siblings, and so our son could play with his three-month-older first cousin. The phone rang at the house, and it was my wife, crying, sobbing. I thought she or Joe, our son, must have been in a wreck. "No," she sobbed, then continued, "Oh, Jim, I am so sorry… Pepper leaped out of my sisters arms and before we could do anything, he ran into the street and was struck by a car. He's dead, Jim, our little Pepper is dead."

I determined right then and there that there would be no more puppies named "Pepper" for me, ever; and maybe even no more dogs for me. We did have other dogs over the years, my wife did, that is, and I tolerated them, but I could not give my heart to any of them.

Then one day, many years later, a very wild, angry, skinny and hungry cat showed up at our house. He was solid black, and slowly we were able to get him to trust us, as we fed him and brushed him, and we had him spayed. He was seven months old, the vet said, and we named him "Tarbaby." He lives with my now ex-wife, and he is a wonderful cat.

A couple of years after the second Tarbaby showed up, another solid black cat came to live with us. He, too, was just a kitten, only a few weeks old, with huge feet, and a huge heart to match. He adopted us, and he lives with me still. He weighs in at 22 pounds, and is now seven years old and a total sweetheart. I allowed my daughter to name him, and she chose the name Ebony.

Guess what happened last week? A scrawny, hungry, very scared feral cat showed up at our house. He is living under the deck, and won't come out unless I place food in the yard and keep my distance. Oh, and guess what else? Yes, that's right. He is totally black. Hmmm. Perhaps "Tarbaby 3"?

Well, that's the scan of my pets persona pets over the years.

Oh. Wait. I almost forgot: there is also Muffin. She's a shitzu that I purchased and gave to my now ex-wife eight years ago for her 50^th birthday. She's the first dog I have allowed myself to really get attached to since Pepper II died. She lives with my "Ex," but I have visitation rights, and sometimes I get to keep her for a weekend! :)

NOTE: This is being re-published with an update on the scrawny ferral cat. I named him Blackie. We had him spayed, and now he is a real sweetheart. Somedays he will even allow me to hold him. I sit on the steps of our deck, and he lays on my lap, and once again... I am 4, and I am surely purring inwardly just as content as purring Blackie on my lap.