Fear takes on a whole new meaning when an uninvited animal invades your home and brings the unpredictable wildness of nature into your sheltered space.
This happened to my family last week. We live in a residential area but there's a large greenbelt just a block away, and our next-door neighbour's yard is a veritable forest to itself - I half expect Bilbo Baggins to pop his head over the fence one of these days and offer me some mushrooms. Well, I guess he'd more likely go under the fence. Regardless of how he arrived, I would definitely need to try those mushrooms.
Speaking of trippy - my little family is still shaken by the real beast that charged through our front door last week, its wild eyes chasing my wife and two kids into a corner in the kitchen.
My four-year-old son burst into tears, clutching my wife's leg in terror. My poor one-year-old was strapped to his high chair, powerless to avoid the near certain mauling that was about to occur. All he could do was yell at the top of his lungs - come to think of it, it was a pretty typical meal for him. My wife, meanwhile, shouted "nooooooo" and threw herself in front of the children, Secret Service style. It was pandemonium.
Soaked in adrenaline sweat, I decided to sacrifice my safety to save the family, throwing myself at the beast, grabbing hold of whatever I could while trying to spare my loved ones - and myself - from those flesh-shredding fangs.
With a lucky grab I wrestled it off the ground and raced to the front door. With one last, desperate effort the animal sunk its claws into our doorframe and seemed poised to fly back into our living room where it could finish its murderous mission. With my last drops of strength and courage I gave one final heave, tossing the beast just clear of the threshold before slamming the door shut on. .. our neighbour's cute new kitten. Ozzie.
It was after that panicked display that my wife and I realized that though we've had many parenting triumphs - greatest of all is somehow keeping both the boys alive so far - we've utterly failed in the don'tget-freaked-out-by-animals department.
My wife and I are both to blame. She grew up in a three-sister family and the girls never had pets. Things got interesting when they'd visit their relatives' farms. (Yes plural - the Prairie Constitution clearly states that you must know at least two people who live on farms. And you can never be more than 35 square metres away from a Skidoo.)
On the farm the girls would stay in the car until they were assured that all dogs were tied up, locked away or wrestled into submission. Then, finally, they'd make their way to the barn and wrangle the pigs. Just kidding - they'd sprint into the house and eat pie.
I wasn't much better. I never had pets either, and while I wasn't scared of animals per se, I was never all that interested in taking a frisky puppy for a walk, cuddling up on a rocking chair with a fluffy kitten, or just generally being within a four-block radius of any cat or dog.
Of course sometimes a close friend or relative would inexplicably insist that we couldn't lock their dog up in the laundry room all day whenever I came to visit. In those cases I would learn to tolerate it. If the dog or cat displayed decades of perfect behaviour and overall cuteness, I would, once or twice a year, gingerly go in for an awkward pet on the head. Then, of course, I'd spend the next 15 minutes washing my hands.
I know I'm going to get hate mail from the North Shore Dogeratti - our newspaper's letters page is pretty much 50 per cent dogs, 40 per cent traffic and 10 per cent people from West Van warning of the dangerous spread of the latest neighbourhood terror, be it nursing homes, bike lanes or - pray it never happens - nursing homes with bike lanes.
Just know that my wife and I tried to keep our children from inheriting our animal instincts. In fact, when my older son was just a toddler he loved being around animals, and we encouraged him to talk to dog owners and, if given permission, go in for a cuddle.
I guess somewhere along the line he saw through our fake coolness and picked up our real scent. Now if there's a Bichon Frise in the room he'll climb me like a squirrel and perch on my head as if he's escaping a grizzly bear.
And our youngest son, well, with parents like us and a nervous older brother, he never had a chance. Whenever he's outside and the kitten is around he stops playing and creepily growls "Ozziiiieeee!" like he's been possessed by the devil. This would be fine if he was at a tiny tots Black Sabbath concert. But it's not so cool when it's directed at a terrified baby kitten.
It's a wonder the little kitty ever comes near us, let alone into our kitchen for a visit. All it wanted was to say hello and check out our place, and that's how we react? What a bunch of animals.
