RAH RAH RAH !

For a week now, I have been under siege in my very own home. I've had these unexpected guests show up and squat in my house. It's bad enough having one unexpected guest, but a mother and her children are just too much. These primitive little greenhorns are biting into my comfort zone and forcing me out of my routine. I'm condemned to be ultra quiet during hours that I never have to be. I have to tip-toe around when I get home in the evenings after my day away at work. I can't even prepare a regular meal for myself in the past week. I can only use the microwave or eat right out of the refrigerator or pantry. And, my family are in love with these home crashers. They too are not eating stove prepared meals and haven't for the past week. You should hear the shrieks from them when I accidentally deviate from these recent rules.

What appear to be momma and papa sparrows have nested in the stove's extractor duct and some chicks have hatched in there. The gas burners on the stove put out many BTU's of heat and vent the monoxide out and away, so use of the stove to cook a regular meal has been out of the question according to my 8 and 6 year old's directives. From their elevated swing set's clubhouse in the back yard, they both delight seeing the two adult birds fly in and fly out and return with something for the chicks to eat. They also marvel when the chicks peek out of the vent. It's strange to walk into the kitchen in the mornings recently and to listen to "Chirp Symphony no. 1" emanate from inside the stove's hood.

I cannot reach into the vent itself very easily because it is on the back of the house and up about 17 feet. I hope that chicks can fly sooner than later. I'm not sure how long it takes a chick to fly the coup. I mean that literally, because figuratively, that's a loaded question. I'm not in the mood for heated debating right now.

In a way, these birds nesting where they have may have something to do with me. I believe that the exhaust duct provided a warm and seemingly safe environment for the sparrows to nest there because we are a petless home. The birds did not smell a mammal nearby and figured that they hit the mother load in that exhaust duct.

We have a 60 gallon aquarium in the family room and my five year old son has a hermit crab habitat on his dresser drawer. Fish and hermit crabs do not qualify as pets according to the hoards of people telling me that I should get a pet for the home. The chorus of boos begin with the 5 year old all the way to my general manager boss who brings up the subject of getting a pet up every time he sees my wife.

It's not like it sounds. I love animals and everyone who knows me knows that I do. I believe that cruel animal abuse deserves The Death Penalty for human beings. To get a cat would be out of the question. I have not been around one that I'm not allergic to, but then I've not lived among lions or tigers. I have known tigresses, but have never lived with one. Perhaps I should have an allergist check me for lion and tiger sensitivity. My apprehension about incorporating a dog, however, is complicated and to some degree selfish.

"Royal Canine Fio Hey Dude" was his official name according to the American Kennel Club. "Fio" for short. When I was twenty-five years old, three years before I was married, before Rottweilers were commonly known, I don't know why I did this, but I plunked down a small fortune to get this high-end bred animal. Fio became an extension of me for 13 years. When people called to touch base, Fio was always part of the conversation. Fio was the most fortunate of dogs because he lived like a human being. At the very least, he possessed a twenty-five word vocabulary, was always well groomed, and if I had to travel, Fio would ALWAYS fly on the plane with me. Not "in" the plane, but on the plane's cargo hold.

It got to the point that when my wife and I were on vacation, and we stayed at hotels, some hotel's staff that we had been to previously would recognize us and the dog and embrace his stay. When I moved from Tucson to New York City in 1989, the dog was part of our excursion here. Tucson to San Diego to Vancouver via the Pacific Coast Highway. To New York City via Canada and all stops in between. Five weeks on the road with the dog. American Airlines once forgot about him on the tarmac as my plane pulled away from the gate. He eventually reaching his destination 4 hours later than I did. One time at NWK Liberty, a heavy snow delay created a shortage of cargo handlers and I was asked to go on the tarmac and help load Fio into the plane. He pee'd on the jet's tires for good luck that time.

The luckiest dog and the best trained dog I've ever known anyone to own personally. A natural sentinel. He outlived his litter. He ate the best food and had the best veterinary care around. Essentially, he was like a person with special needs. He was like a first son.

Early in 1998, Fio was diagnosed with cancer and my veterinarian then refused to sign-off on him to fly on a plane any longer. It was then, at a later age, whenever it became necessary, he ended up having to stay in a kennel. But, a carefully chosen one. It was more like a dog spa. I needed to travel over Thanksgiving weekend one time and boarded him at this kennel where not only did he get bathed and groomed, but the dog was also served a Thanksgiving dinner of his own: turkey, bread and carrots. Some dog, huh?

Fifteen months after his diagnosis, after some significant weight loss, with heightened discomfort, and he no longer able to even go to the corner and back any longer, I decided that it was time for him to rest. I made an appointment with the vet to be the last appointment of the day on a Saturday. When our turn came to pass, the veterinarian's office locked their doors. Wifey and I stood by the dog on the examination table and we petted him and soft talked him for as long as we wanted to. We fed him a couple of croissants in pieces. A short while later, Wifey became inconsolable and she left the examination room. I was left there alone and I called the doctor. The doctor entered and enabled his rest and his legend. My man/beast relationship was over. He was really my dog. He bonded to me the strongest and I was his main caregiver.

As soon as possible after that Saturday evening, the house was painted inside, all the carpeting was replaced and the wood flooring was refinished. Shoes have not been worn in my home since September 1999. It's great. You can walk in white socks and the white socks stay white. No hair. No smell. No mess. No vet bills and no grooming appointments. No dog sitting. No having to buy the 40 pound bag of Science Diet or Eukanuba.

I happen to like this dog ownership liberation situation. I do not want that responsibility yet again. I do not want to end up being the dog's primary caregiver. I do not want to tackle and wrestle with that first year of ownership. I don't need the worries. I don't need the hassles. I do not want to give up my canine libertine ways.

Honestly, I just don't want to get emotionally attached to a living being who doesn't complain, who doesn't anger, who does not compete, who does not divide time, who always greets you at the door, who is always happy and easily pleased.

It's too painful when that companion is gone.

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