Who needs LA when your heart is in the Cotswolds?
The focus this month is on pets, and I’ve written at length before on my quintessential Cotswold household of one – a small terrier dog – and another, a large Labrador derivative.
When my children were small, we did have a fractionally more exotic menagerie, which consisted of a tank of tropical fish which provided a practical, non-television-related method of calming the children and also served as an early, reasonably low-stakes introduction to the concept of life and death.
I’d like to say that our tank of fish also taught my children about the responsibilities that come with keeping pets, but sadly the tank-cleaning duties always fell to me. It was always me, armpit-deep in the water, trying to vacuum the foul-smelling sludge away from the gravel at the bottom of the tank. And though we all enjoyed the sight of a happy group of neon tetra, I’m very glad to not have a fish tank anymore.
But some people don’t need dogs or cats or fish because they have a different sort of pet. Cars, for example, can apparently provoke deep, personal attachments where their owners give them names, spend a great deal of time keeping them clean, taking them out for a run and generally worrying about their wellbeing.
Even lawnmowers can receive this kind of love and care from some people. I’m not going to name names – oh, OK, it’s my husband Simon – but his ride-on lawnmower not only has a name, as does its trailer, but when it had to be taken in to be repaired recently, I noticed that on the day it was due to be collected, Simon had written “Tarquin to hospital” in our joint diary.
Some people are devoted to the plants in their gardens and homes. Feeding and watering them, talking to them and carefully trimming them when required. I found myself giving our big Cedar of Lebanon tree a reassuring pat and some words of comfort when it lost a large branch in a storm recently. Many years ago, Prince Charles encountered a fair bit of derision when he promoted talking to our plants, but I challenge anyone with a garden to say that they’ve never complimented a blooming flower or cursed at an aggressive bramble.
Another pet-substitute could be a clock. Whether it be an ornate mantle clock or a beast of a grandfather clock, these delicate creatures apparently require a great deal of care and attention beyond regular winding. The sound of the ‘tick’ can be used to diagnose all sorts of arrhythmias, and the chime can, on occasion, be deemed a “cry for help” to an expert ear. So I’m told.
Perhaps we just can’t help ourselves. It’s more than just our proclivity to anthropomorphise inanimate objects, it’s the pleasure and rewards that come from nurturing and caring. In this world and in these times, I think this should be encouraged, no matter what the object of our affection is. Even if it’s a lawnmower.
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