Priceless Pets?

A number of years ago, while still living in St. Louis, Tricia and I went to the Humane Society in search of a dog. We already had a four-year-old German shepherd at home but worried he needed a playmate. What made us think this, I have no idea. He really had no trouble filling his time. Large parts of Cosmo’s day were spent ferociously barking at the mailman, neighbors, and pretty much any and everyone who passed down the street.  He wasn’t that dangerous, though. Much like a vampire, once you were invited into the house Cosmo could do you no harm.

Concerned for his mental well-being, we went in search of a second dog. The Humane Society had a room for male dogs, a room for female dogs, and yet another room for puppies. After visiting both the male and female rooms – where we found that most dogs were more interested in eating us than making a good first impression – we swung by the puppy room. We had already decided that a puppy wouldn’t be an option because of all the time involved in taking care of one. 

Just a note – if you keep telling people that you really don’t want a new car but you find yourself walking around dealerships “just to see what there is” you’re either a liar or you’re stupid. We were stupid.

We were stupid because we thought we could look at all those incredibly small and wrinkly puppies whimpering up at us and somehow make our way back to the male room where a couple of Dobermans were sharpening their teeth on the concrete.

So forty-five minutes, and seventy-five dollars, later we were on our way home with a tiny brown raisin the lady claimed to be a chocolate lab. We named her Lexy and soon found out she had worms. After a trip to the vet we came home with some medication that quickly, but not inexpensively, took care of the problem.

Lexy was happy running around the house - sliding across the wood floors and into the walls. Cosmo followed her the first few hours but soon decided she was more trouble than she was worth. He decided to keep his distance. If Lexy noticed you’d never know it. She was too busy chewing on everything in the house that would fit in her mouth. Candy, rugs, furniture. One month after we brought her home we were into her a lot more than that initial $75.

Lexy grew and grew, losing most her wrinkles but none of her energy. She still loved to chew but I found that keeping her tired helped at least a bit. One day I was in the backyard throwing tennis balls for the dogs. Lexy was tearing across the yard in pursuit of the ball when it took a strange bounce to the side. She tried to stop all her momentum and cut to the left when her leg suddenly buckled underneath her. She cried out in pain and hit the ground. Stunned, and unsure what to do, I watched to see if she would get up. She did, but slowly. Lexy limped a few steps and fell to the ground again. I went over and carried her back into the house.

After visits to the vet and surgeon we found out she had tore her ACL. It would cost about $2,000 to have her knee fixed. Two. Thousand. Dollars. 

“The dog only cost seventy-five dollars, dude,” a friend told me. “Just get a new one. You’ll save $1,925.”

How much is a dog worth? The price you pay to get her? The cost of all those visits to the vet and bags of dog food? The amount of joy they bring you?

We decided Lexy was worth $2,000. She had the surgery and fully recovered.

This all came back to me yesterday when Ainsley came down to wake us up. She was sitting on our bed telling us about the baby deer she saw out her window when she woke up, the picture she colored for her bedroom door, and her plans to get her guinea pig, Charlotte, a snack from the kitchen. 

“Go ahead and get her a carrot,” Tricia told her.

“Okay,” Ainsley said. “She loves carrots and she also likes when I give her some hay.”

“Hey,” I said. “We have plenty of hay outside!” A few weeks ago I bought 1,000 pounds of hay from a local farmer for just $30. I was awfully proud of this purchase because it seemed like such a bargain.

“No, Dad,” Ainsley corrected me. “Charlotte eats Timothy Hay. That’s just normal hay.”

“What’s the difference?” I asked. “Hay is hay. They feed cows and horses with the hay we have out in our yard. I don’t know why a guinea pig would need anything better. “

“No, Dad,” Ainsley argued. “We’re supposed to give her Timothy Hay.”

“Yeah,” Tricia added. “Charlotte isn’t a wild animal. She’s a pet.”

“How is that any different,” I asked. “She should be happy to eat whatever we get her.”

Later in the day I was out for a walk with the very same friend who had, years earlier, suggested we get a new dog rather than pay $2,000 for reconstructive surgery.

“Let me get this right,” he said. “You can pay $5 for a pound of Timothy hay or $30 for a thousand pounds of this other hay?”

“Yep.”

“Dude, you gotta go with the thousand pounds for $30,” he argued. 

“Tricia and Ainsley seem to think there aren’t enough nutrients in it, though,” I said. “They think she wouldn’t be healthy.”

He thought on this for a milli-second.

“Even if she died,” he said, “How much is a guinea pig? Like seven bucks or something?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“So,” he argued. “A thousand pounds is going to last you forever. Just keep buying new guinea pigs. You’ll come ahead!”