How pets bring out the best in humans, and don't ask for much in return

My life of pets is very interesting, maddening, and loving.

We adopted our first pet in Columbia, Missouri back in 2002. As a young couple starting to live together, we needed a companion in the house. A referee of sorts.

Jack was the cat’s name, the first of so many adopted and beloved pets that have come and gone in the Buffa estate-houses and apartments spread out across the state of Missouri. Jack was so tiny at first, a furry little fella who’s cute little cry sounded like screaming white chocolate and entire body could fit on my head for a nap.

Max was our next adoptee, a black cat who could just walk up to a mattress standing straight up against a wall and hop on top. Marley, a gold lab, had the energy of a bullet train, and Janie peed everywhere if she was disciplined.

Cabernet is also an accident artist, but her princess veneer keeps her liability for punishment fairly low. Frank the cat will be on your lap in 60 seconds or less. Freddy is a natural born puppy cat, the orange and white spots on his fur suggesting two personalities: lovable and playful.

Roscoe is the current elder statesman, the seven-year-old beagle with an old man limp from tick fever in his paw. He can go from a sleeping corpse to a meth-addict infused dance once food comes out. Sitting at about a third of the size, Jasper brings the tenacity of seven chihuahuas, even if he is deep down an old-fashioned romantic (nose kisses preferred).

We have five pets and they simultaneously drive me nuts, bring me such joy, and then drive me a little more nuts. They are smarter than they look and eat, but never seem to think about all the stuff we worry about. A five alarm fire to a dog is bacon left on the counter just out of his reach. Jasper’s idea of a security threat is a beautiful young family walking past our house with a little baby and a little dog. Jasper says the hell with that kid’s nap; that dog must kneel.

A typical morning starts for my wife between 5 and 6am, where she feeds the two dogs, and then down the basement steps to feed the three cats. I am up a little later, and that includes cleaning up at least one or two “accidents,” aka an animal peeing in a spot because they fucking can and will get away with it. At least one of the five pets will be somewhat sick, throwing up all over the house. Cab will place a cherry on top with a few drops of pee on a pillow.

It’s not their fault, of course. They are a gift to the world, burdened with none of the existential crisis that weighs down humans. A dog or cat lives like James Dean, like this set of 24 hours is it and all the food and fun must be had now. They don’t think about bills, next year, tonight’s meal, tomorrow’s shirt choice, or a social media dispute. A group of pets would rather gamble their meals tomorrow instead of engaging on a porous site like Twitter for attention.

For Roscoe, attention arrives when mom or dad comes through the door. “OH, the possibilities,” he thinks. “What are we eating, drinking, smelling, and doing, humans?”

I’d like to think pets replace everything in life that can’t be found elsewhere, or would cost too much of ourselves to chase after. They give us acceptance, love, and a body to lay next to or unleash our pain onto whenever we see fit. They give us all of that in an instant. No need to wait until two days after the phone number was given, or talk to our friends before making the next move. You make the move with a dog or cat the minute they get adopted. They’re the shrink; we are the hands that rub the fur as the anger in our hearts and minds is dispensed with no talk back. Dogs and cats are too busy being perceptive gangsters to bother with words.

The hard part about having pets is the inevitable end. Taking their presence for granted comes as easy as breathing at times, because they’re so here for us. We’re their world, their compass, scope, and area code. There could be a raging party down the street or a packed stadium five minutes away. Frank would rather hang on my lap for six hours. That’s a pet. Potential energy is everything.

Amidst our busy body activities every day, they usually repeat the same stuff. Get up, stretch, lick a few areas, eat, rest, sleep, stretch, go outside a few times, eat, play, lick, bark at things that are far away, and sleep some more. A pet’s life is simply constructed, which is perfect for us. Whenever a session is needed, their notebook is always at the ready.

One day, they’ll be gone. That’s the inevitable part. The double-edged sword of bringing someone new into your life; the knowledge of mortality that the creature lacks but you can’t seem to lose. How much time do we have left? What happens if you get sick? Who is going to take care of me after you’re gone?

More than they think, our pets take care of us just as much as we take care of them. When a good cry is needed or the mechanism needs to be cleared, there they are.

There are so many times where I yell at my dog for doing this or that, and I feel awful later. Usually that’s when the human starts to wrestle with their own mind in wondering why they were yelling at an animal that can’t understand our language. We do it because of stress, need, and a sense of isolation. They make us feel less alone, even when we’re happy.

They don’t ask for much: Love, food, and a warm bed. In return, you get a friend for life who doesn’t care that you didn’t graduate college, can’t find the dream job that keeps eluding you, or may not amount to shit. They won’t berate you, yell at you, or tell you that you made a mistake. They won’t break down your life choices and rank them according to stupidity and lost opportunity.

All Roscoe wants is me to stop moving, sit down, and rub his belly. Simple needs.

He won’t say awful things on Twitter about me, or whine that we don’t hang out anymore or enough. A dog has no sense of time, whether it’s how much is left in a day or in a life. All he’ll do is bob back and forth on the couch, tail wagging and brown eyes piercing.

It’s why animals are such aloof, irreverent experts about what to do when death does come knocking. They may know it’s going to end at some point, but it’s not on their mind for long. All they can think about is that back door opening to the yard one more time. They just don’t worry about useless shit like we do.

When Jack died, I cried like a giant baby in a parking lot in Webster Groves. I sat on concrete as if the day wouldn’t expire and he wouldn’t be taken from me. My son asked me what was wrong and I couldn’t tell him. I was useless. I didn’t cry that hard when my beloved grandmother or best friend died. I didn’t have that kind of connection with them; the daily look, acknowledgement, and demonstration of love and connection.

All the while, Jack was calm and collected in his final moments, even if he couldn’t breathe. His entire torso felt like a brown bag being expanded and collapsed by someone having a panic attack. He jumped out of our lap in the car, and laid down on one of the floor mats. That’s what they do at death. Pick a spot, get comfy one last time, and put our minds at ease that the end isn’t as scary as we think it is. Even in death, dogs give us pearls.

There was nothing I could do, a finality that kicked my ass more than any human could. The idea of being helpless in life is as scary as being stuck in the dark with no light. But Jack made me feel okay in some small way because his tiny chest would be able to expand, his eyes would flicker gently, and the drive to cat heaven was beginning.

One day, I am going to lose all five of my pets. Each of those days will eternally suck. Each of the days after will be spent remembering and savoring the virtue of a pet in a human’s life. It’s boundless, endless, and in the end, weightless.

Fiona Apple recently postponed a concert due to her lovely dog running into bad health and old age. She said something about the dog that will stick in my mind for a while.

"Animals have a survival instinct, but a sense of mortality and vanity, they do not. That's why they are so much more present than people."

Roscoe, Jasper, Cabernet, Frank, and Freddy are always so present, more present than we’ll ever be. They got a better grasp on the meaning of life and its virtues. While we wrestle with philosophy and finding worth in our stance on politics or a topical issue, they just keep on keeping on. Their goals are much more simple: Live it up, and don’t waste time overthinking anything except for which bed or couch you’re napping on.

Pets remind us to slow down. They show us the way, as if each of them is a tiny Mando. In return, they ask for nothing but us.

How do you know you’re a good pet parent? When you treat them like children yet allow them to be free in their own way. That’s what we do at the Buffa Estate. This is too long and I am weepy, so that’s it.