Thirteen Dogs and Nine Horses
C. H. Allen Clark

We have too many animals. There are, on board the great ark, thirteen dogs and nine horses to be exact. Dogs plague our home like locusts. They flurry around as wild animals would in a zoo; many times I have referred to our home as the Santiago Zoo. Feed them. Water them.

I push a walker and do the best I can to help my parents. Mornings involve a bathtub where cats have slept all night. The cats that bring concern are named Sister Cat and Two Faces. Two Faces can be sweet and all purrs one second, and bloated the next. Our bloatation device usually deflates in our bathtub. Nevertheless, with all of the problems, I am glad she is not named Archie.

Archie is our 20 LB. Shih Tzu and one of eight house pets. He is known as the "Big Ragu" of our abode. Call him "Lefty of the Leftovers", "Fatty of all known Feasts", and "Cat Pervert Extraordinaire." He loves cats, especially a Calico named Sister Cat. He is by far the obese one of the bunch. There are other Shih Tzu dogs, namely Spanky, Skipper, Dali, Stormy, Munchkin, and Skippy. I don't like Skippy because he sounds too much like the peanut butter my mother loves. Another thing about Skippy I don't like is that he barks continuously. I think he is probably spoiled and wants to be held constantly. Like our adorable frisky feline lover Archie, Skippy needs a pet psychiatrist.

Bathrooms are notoriously occupied by our animals. A small Shih Tzu dog, specifically Spanky, stays in our hallway bathroom. Two Calico cats stay in my mother's bathroom. The guest bathroom is reserved for our maid. Because of our many animals, we basically have no guests. They are afraid of the animals and must be addicted to old Alfred Hitchcock movies. If he can write about birds, he can certainly write about dogs, horses, and cats.

Our kennels open up a whole different world. I have to hold onto walls through three garages and then climb down a flight of stairs in order to get there. In the dark, murky, and smelly confines of our kennels live four German Shepherds and Rosa. They traveled to shows in three different states and once wore gold medals around their necks. Now, their menu consists of a can of Alpo with the harsh yelp of Rosa coming from the next kennel over. She too eats Alpo, but from a stolen can. I sometimes smuggle her water in the gloom of night with a big harvest moon staring back at me from the garage window. He smiles at me as if to ask "Why are you here?" or "What are you doing here?" I am trying to save Rosa from her destiny. She is, indeed, a runaway dog.

In addition to thirteen dogs and nine horses, we have approximately twenty cats. They range from the two Calicos kept in the hall bathroom to the old black cat that stays unnamed out in our garage. Cats never cease to exist. They multiply like a garden of carrots.

That grey cat is gone. She once was confined beneath the hood of my Aunt Virginia's 1958 Edsel. She chose to stay hidden. I chose to crank the car, seeing that it had not had its motor turned over in weeks. Bravo! The engine did start. The garage door was open to allow gas fumes to escape and also to allow the smell of burnt cat fur to leave. I never saw that grey cat again, but I did see my 82 year old father take the Edsel for a spin. My aunt would be proud. We all would be.

Go down HWY 13, and you will arrive at our farm. This luscious land of green pastures consists of ninety acres of rolling hills where nine Arabian horses subsist off of the fat of the land. My father has the original deed signed by President Grant.

The horses are pure bred Arabians that run across our pasture as if a tornado left Kansas and headed straight for our barn. They are not tame, but still have a history straight out of the book Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. I speak of their pedigree. We have Black Beauty's granddaughter. With that old bay mare, we have eight other Arabians with colorful and very prestigious pedigrees. One stallion is directly descended from the Prophet's horse. Another comes from Hoss Cartwright's Ponderosa. I wish Hoss would take all of them back. Even a Sheik could not ride them. Neither could I. Walkers don't tell much except that the user's legs don't work right. Still, I could pretend to ride. I could saddle up the old bay mare who is the only one tame and then take off. I wonder if a walker would fit on top of a saddle.

The old Bay named Fandango is a granddaughter of Cas'e Ole, the original Black Beauty, and the eldest of our nine Arabians. She is twenty-nine to be exact.

All of those animals, the thirteen dogs and nine horse as well as twenty cats seem to be our destiny. One day, I will saddle up the old bay mare with the walker on top and then ride off into the sunset. Where will I ride? I know not where. Perhaps, I will ride to my destiny.