Oct 27, 2023 4 min read

This week’s column is about meeting my granddog for the first time and how my Smoothie was not happy about it. And it is also about my grandlizard and grandpiders and how I’ve enjoyed watching my son and daughter take care of these pets.

Sitting in the middle of this space, though, is news of another gun massacre; talk of puppies and spiders seemed silly and trite, and I sat here for hours, thinking of something more profound to say. But I have nothing. News of the shooting in Maine and the resulting community lockdowns and desperate manhunt hit first like another jagged blade of shock but then landed with the same dull, hopeless thud. We humans have reached the point where our collective shoulders are too weak and our motives too selfish to pull ourselves out of this death spiral.

Hundreds of millions of words smarter than mine have been written about gun violence, and nothing’s changed. Ask anyone who knows me – I’m among the most bright-eyed-and-bushytailed and most optimistic of people, and I’m hitting bottom now.

And so I’ll write about the pets.

Gabby the English bulldog came for a visit. My daughter and her husband were in town for a college homecoming, and they asked if I’d keep the dog for the day. I’d been getting almost daily updates and questions about the dog, and I was eager to meet her.

Gabby’s a big girl, black and white, with a curly tail and a flat, wiggly face. When I would ride my bike around North Park Lake, I’d sometimes pass a woman walking a large pig. From behind, Gabby has the same sway as that animal (and comparison to a pig is a compliment, as pigs are known to be clean and intelligent).

Gabby was well-behaved and friendly, and Smoothie wasn’t having it. Upon meeting, Smoothie sniffed at Gabby and then turned and hid under the dining room table. Gabby persisted and cornered Smoothie there. Smoothie escaped and, for the first and only time since we moved here, jumped onto the sofa.

Gabby, still wanting to make friends, tried to climb aboard, and Smoothie, shy old man that he is, snapped at Gabby. If Gabby had a prominent nose, the bite would have landed; being a bulldog with a concave face, Gabby avoided injury and retreated, only to try once again.

I was looking at a long day of sniping, so I took Smoothie to stay with my parents for the weekend.

Meanwhile, on the West Coast, my son and his fiancé were tending to the health and happiness of my other grandpets – a lizard and a blue tarantula. Although I’ve not met the pets in person, the kids keep me updated on their lives (and those of their cats, a frog and many fish) with photos and FaceTime visits. It’s impressive that they are dedicated to these animals, right down to the bugs in the freezer.

“Freeze-dried crickets,” my son explained when I asked what you feed a tarantula.

As any loving grandmother would do, I like to help. Once a month, I send my son a few bucks toward the cricket budget, for the care and feeding of the spiders. Likewise, I helped my daughter buy a dog stroller for Gabby. It’s probably among the silliest money I’ve ever spent, but bulldogs can’t breathe very well in the heat, so a stroll is easier than a walk.

This column feels silly right now, with earth-shattering problems all around us. But I’m at a point where it feels sane to write about the smaller, benign things. Crickets and dog strollers.