The children I meet at the barbecue at my brother's place on Saturday take me for a walk to see the kittens that live in the park behind the house. As with most children, these kids - a sister, aged thirteen, and her younger brother, eight, - love animals. It sounds like they got it from their mother, a short, energetic woman with huge eyes, who herself requires restraint from her husband on animal adoption issues.

"I have to be the bad guy," her husband told me. "If I don't, they'd just bring in every animal they find." They have a dog, three cats, a bird, a huge tank of fish, and even a rabbit.

Both of the kids are exceptionally bright, but there are certain limitations to their education, mostly because they live in the South. As we walk to the park, the girl asks me if my brother and I celebrate Thanksgiving. Apparently if you're Jewish, you might as well be from Canada. I don't imagine there are too many Jews living in Chattanooga, but I could be wrong.

As we walk across the baseball field, the sister sends her brother to run ahead and check out the small, private garden in the park, which is only available for visitation by park members. The kittens live in the garden. We've already been instructed on how to bullshit our way in by ourselves, but I'd prefer not to have to do that. The girl, however, has her lines rehearsed and ready. She wants to see those kittens.

"You should adopt one," she tells me, as we amble along the far side of the park, trying to look innocent.

"Oh, I can't. I want to, but my roommate won't let me."

"Why? Do you travel a lot?"

"No, he just doesn't want a pet. I live in a small apartment. Not everyone in New York has a place like this --" I motion toward my brother's back yard.

This response makes no sense to her, and she looks at me suspiciously.

Her brother waves us over from across the field. It's free and clear in the private garden. We trudge across the field, the scent of grass steamed by rain and sun surrounding us. I breathe deeply. It smells good.

The garden smells even better, tropical almost. We walk just a few steps and see the mother cat suckling what looks to be four of the kittens. She's standing straight, and there's a mash of fur and legs, mostly black, some with white spots, lodged underneath her. She's grey with dark stripes, and looks thin and young. Her eyes are closed. Two other kittens pop in and out of the plants, peeking at us. I feel immediately that we should leave them alone.

The sister takes a few steps in the direction of the cats, and I whisper that this might not be the best time. The brother spots a small plate of cat food, and dislodges some flies swimming in the plate.

"I got some of 'em out," he says proudly. He turns to the cats and adds, "There. It's better now."

"Maybe we should come back later," I say. And then, with more confidence, "Yes, we should come back later."

The girl and the boy are disappointed, but I don't have to tell them twice. They're incredibly well-behaved. I forget, living in New York, that on the rest of the planet children do not run around screaming all the time. Or maybe these children are just special.

As we walk back to the house, the girl says, "So are you going to adopt one or not?"

"I can't," I said. "And anyway I'd get a dog if I could get anything."

The boy asks me to explain why I can't, so I repeat my earlier response. He looks at me sadly. There is clearly something in me that is either suspect or needs to be pitied. What kind of person can't have a pet?

"I have a fish," I say lamely.

"Just one fish?" says the girl.

"Just one," I say.

Thankfully they decide they still want to be my friend.

archives | w-w home | mail