Children and animals and how they lived happily ever after


pets and kids

All creatures wise and wonderful

I was asked a question recently that I didn’t know how to answer. We were discussing my other profession; I am also a canine behaviourist. “So you don’t believe that animals are animals and they will attack you without reason?,” said the lady at Yoga class. “How do you teach them when they don’t know you. Don’t they bite ?”

The only thing I could stutter was, “Your child doesn’t know her teachers when she first goes to school, but they manage to teach her over time, don’t they? We are animals too, and like us, they respond within a framework to stimulus.”

It was a dry answer. I might as well have tried to explain time through colours.

I am childless by choice; I don’t believe all my children need to come out of my uterus or within my specie. It is not an adventure I am compelled to go on, but it’s a destination I visit often. Not in a 2-hour a week way, but a three-day Mimi (toddler-speak for Maami, or aunt)  bonanza featuring bathing, feeding, poop-cleaning, bed-time and once, a vaccination trip with song and dance.

My pay-off for this specialised child-care? I will introduce your child to safe animals. I say safe, because if the animal (cat, dog, pig, and goat) is not used to the high-pitched sounds and jerky movements made by a child, it may react out of fear, scarring the child forever.

I do this more for the animals than the children. I don’t need to galvanise a new generation of animal lovers. I wish for a supplementary army of the future, that may not want to cuddle a pig, but recognises it as a living being with a need for space, respect, food and the ecosystem. I want the children to see how much work living with an animal is so that they don’t bring one home and then abandon it when it nips them while teething. And that’s why when friends with children suggest meeting up, I suggest dog parks (Powai), restaurants with dogs (Gostana), farms with inter-specie harmony (Japalouppe Equesterian Centre) or my home with two cats (Sister and Kranti).

A child born without a natural affinity towards animals, might learn to respect them, after frequent exposure. A child without affinity and exposure, may not cultivate empathy — and will order the watchman to put the puppies or kittens born in the building into a gunny bag and into a creek. (S)he will believe animals are unpredictable, violent beings and not familiars, friends and children whom we can communicate with.

As a childless person, I can be smug in these theories. And it is what I bring to the table as a member of the village that raises the child. We live in isolated nuclear families and I am grateful that instead of each of us getting a child of our own, some of us are sharing theirs. And as proxy moms, we are trusted to impart our set of values too.

My three-year-old niece is not naturally drawn to all animals, but she is fascinated by The Girls (my cats). In her interaction with them, she is able to work out her fears and hesitations by externalisation — she explains to Kranti why she must take medicine or face injections. She was exposed to the idea of surgery when they were spayed. She loves to reverse roles and tell them to finish their food, to feed them and tell them they are being naughty.

of pets and kids

Kranti and Sister

When I interrupt our playtime to go train a dog, I tell her I am going to teach a puppy to be polite, so that (s)he grows up to be a good girl or boy like her. I am hinting that she does not command all of my time and attention. I think it does a child good to know that they are not the most important thing in a supplementary adult’s life. That love and duty can (and must) extend beyond family, species and bloodline.

K now has a sense of responsibility towards The Girls — she’ll officiously say that *she* must come with me to Pune to take care of them. She tries to kiss them and when she can’t, will ask me to do so. She’ll subject Kranti to a medical examination with the stethoscope and give her an injection the thigh. She teaches her parents how to approach The Girls. “Don’t be afraid,” she told her father, “She won’t do aneeee theeeng. Juss do two-finger touch on her head and back. Not her stomach. She doesn’t like it.”

She is understanding personalities and individual need for space. That Sister (my older cat, named by K) likes to be left alone. That Mischka, a brattish labrador, doesn’t like to share toys. That it’s scary to have a face in your face (she stares at the cats a little too closely). These are lessons she would learn from siblings and playmates, but she is learning that they apply to animals too.

And she has tasted loss. July (again, named by K) our tom cat, walked away in February. She would greet him with, “Hiiiiii my sweetheart.” or “Hiiiii mah sweetu dahling.” She still asks, “Mimi, where’s July?” and I have to tell her he went for a walk and hasn’t come back. The answer doesn’t  bother her on the surface, but her workings are subterranean and I don’t know how this has affected her.

Instead of zoos and tonga rides where she would meet exploited animals in artificial settings, we set up opportunities for her to see them in their element. She has seen Zohra the Rottweiler mother, Floyd the goat (her favourite animal on the farm) and Odin the horse take a dust bath.

We now pretend to be horses; I am Odin and she’s Benji (the pony she rode once at Japalouppe) and we take dust baths together on fresh sheets. Sometimes I, Mini the pig, snort at her; she’s a white kitty who will meow at me and ask for a scratch behind the ear or say petulantly when I leave for Pune, “But, you have to take care of this kitty, mimi.”

I recently introduced her to our neighbourhood vagrant Ghanshyam. “He reminds me of a handsome prince,” she said. If she sees a Disney prince in a big boned Labrador caked in muck, my work is done.

About the author:

Mitali Parekh is an editorial mercenary who lives in Mumbai and Pune (but mostly in your animal’s heart). Apart from writing a weekly column Pet Puja for Mumbai and Pune Mirror, she is also a canine behaviourist and a street fashion goddess.


I get by with a little help from my cats

A month before I got pregnant, Nadia adopted me.

She was a furry black thing, sitting in the middle of the road. I honked. She stared at me audaciously.

What’s that noise, she seemed to say. Take me home, she seemed to imply.

So off in my lunch bag, she went home with me. She took over in the next one hour. It was hers. Everything. Including the husband.

Time passes. I get pregnant. The inevitable question pops up from the people who inevitably ask it.

What are you going to do about the cat?

Actually, I am getting a playmate for her.

What? Another cat? Are you nuts?

Well, I will be busy for a few months when the baby comes. She might feel left out. She needs someone.

God! Never trust a black cat, they told me. And with a baby? Nevvvvaaaahhh…

Toxicoplasmosis. Vendetta. Spite. Jealousy. Asthma. Allergy.

They tried everything.

But  I still went and got Bravo, the only three-legged cat I know. Who actually doesn’t know he has three legs. Legend has it (from the animal shelter I got him from) that Bravo had to be amputated when he was six weeks old as his leg was ridden with maggots from an injury. No one in the city was ready to operate him, as, ironically, no one was qualified to use laughing gas (nitrous oxide, the recommended anaesthetic).

Finally, after a few weeks of being shunted from home to home, office to office, he was operated. When he was barely coming out of anaesthesia, he decided he didn’t like the look of his foot being bandaged. He ripped it off and jumped.

Bravo, they said.

And that’s how he got his name.

Six months later, he got a baby brother. Re.

A year and a half later, I am so grateful. For cats.  For the calm they bring. For all the times they have been his bodyguards when I was busy in the kitchen or on the computer or just off baby duty.  For teaching Re what it means to hug. And cuddle. And nibble. And snuggle. And be independent. And move with grace and agility. For teaching him to share. Space, food,  toys, us. For hating aggression. For being his most favourite toy. And never giving him a dull moment.

For all those dying to know about the dangers of bringing up a baby with cats, I have some news.

I still haven’t visited a paediatrician.

So here’s my life in cat.