Did you have any pets growing up?

Mom and Dad called Beth Elly May because she always brought home strays. Elly May was a TV character from the 1960s Beverly Hillbillies sitcom that, you guessed it, had a habit of dragging animals home.

None of Beth’s strays were ever adopted—no amount of whining, batting of her eyelashes, wheedling, and cajoling produced results. My sister’s determination was particularly intense with Licorice (yes, she named them). Licorice was a black kitten that showed up on our driveway in Salem. In her attempt to give Licorice a permanent home, Beth brought the kitten inside the house. Mom was unimpressed as her eyes swelled. “No Beth, we can’t have a cat!”

So, while Beth may think of Licorice as her first pet, I do not.

Technically, Queenie, a mature, light yellow chihuahua, was our first pet. A neighbor offered Queenie to our family with the assurance that a chihuahua would not aggravate Mom’s allergies. The initial motivation may have been to satiate Beth’s pet cravings, but Mom was enchanted with Queenie.

So, while Mom may think of Queenie as our first pet, I do not.

Queenie and the neighborhood pomeranian had a fling, resulting in an unplanned, premature puppy. Queenie died as a result. Taffy survived because Dad nursed her around the clock with an eyedropper. To this day, Dad pretends not to care for or like pets, but he has always been there for them when they need him.

Taffy was MY first pet.

She would snuggle up in bed with us, especially when we were sick. She tolerated my hugs and devoured our crumbs and leftovers. When no one was around to cover her up, she would slip inside pillowcases for warmth. Protective but risk-averse, Taffy would tell off strangers safely nestled between the back of the couch and the wall.

Spoiled rotten Taffy’s primary diet was “people food.” Mom regularly gave the dog her ice cream bowl to lick after she finished it. Like the bowls, Taffy’s diet included whatever we didn’t finish on our plates. She licked them clean. Yeah, it was gross. This was Taffy’s diet until health issues led her to a vet who insisted on actual dog food. With her life at risk, Taffy survived on dog food. (Mostly. Mom lacked self-control when Taffy begged.)

Taffy lived until the late 1970s after I left for college. Ever protective, she barked and carried on from behind the couch when I brought my now-wife home to meet the family. Even in our retirement, my beloved spouse will sometimes respond to my warm feelings about my first pet, saying, “Taffy didn’t like me,” in a tone that makes it clear the feeling is mutual.