Aw, She's a Beauty!

It would be a gross understatement to say my daughter, the oldest child, is an animal lover. This kid is more of an animal freak. And not just crazy over normal kid type animals, either…ALL animals. I think I may have the female version of Steve Irwin on my hands.

When she was old enough to be talking we were sitting together, enjoying some daddy-daughter time and were looking through a book. Naturally, it was an animal book. We happened upon a page with a picture of a small monkey. She stopped my hand from continuing to flip through the pages and examined the page closely. She looked up at me and asked “Daddy, is that a Pygmy Marmoset?” I believe my exact words were “A what?” She replied, as if to say “You poor, stupid, grown-up. Did I not enunciate well enough for you,” by slowly saying “A Pygmy Marmoset.” I was dumbfounded. I had to stop the reading session and go look up “Pygmy Marmoset” on the internet because I had no earthly idea what one of those looked like. I’ll be doggone if it wasn’t a little monkey-like creature. I hate it when my kids make me feel dumb. Why couldn't it be a monkey?

That was merely setting the stage for what was to come. Our world became one filled with talk of Scarlet Macaws, Spectacled Bears, Chinchillas, Lemurs, Jaguars and Llamas. Curse you Diego! You’ve forced me to learn taxonomy when I was content with my former zoological knowledge that was limited to what I picked up from Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote cartoons. Her animal fascination would ultimately be the impetus behind a children’s book I wrote which is currently being illustrated.

Little did I realize that the fascination would transcend the imaginary and move into the physical. She actually wanted to hold everything she saw. Thank goodness there are no Pygmy Marmosets in Alabama. However, springtime in our area does bring with it a litany of rejuvenated life forms, one of the more aggravating of which is the stinging caterpillar. I was sitting on the back deck having a fun game of “flick the caterpillar” when my daughter walked up beside me and asked “Daddy, what’s this creature in my hand?” To my surprise, one of the hairy little stinging buggers was inching across her palm. I popped the underside of her hand and sent the caterpillar tumbling over the rail before it could get her. “DON”T touch those… it is a caterpillar and they will bite you,” I admonished. “Aw Daddy,” she retorted, “it was my friend.”

Obviously I didn’t get my point across because she has continued to pick up and hold anything she is quick enough to catch... and she’s pretty quick. We live in a relatively rural area so there is no shortage of varmints to manhandle. She’s shown up with lizards, frogs, worms, toads, beetles and some things I’m not real sure about. One I was really sure about was a spider that she had sandwiched between her thumb and forefinger. I grabbed her wrist and flailed it around until she unhanded the suffering arachnid, which drew the response “Daddy, he wasn’t a BITING spider. He didn’t bite me at all.” After having spent 3 days in the hospital from a spider bite on my leg, I was still a bit edgy about them at that juncture.

There was even an instance where, after everyone else was in bed, my wife was sitting at the computer and caught sight of a field mouse that had made his way indoors. The ensuing frenzy woke everyone in the house. Lacking a net, mousetrap, or shotgun, my alternatives were to catch it or shoo it outside. I was running back and forth trying to corral the stupid mouse and my daughter came running in with me, her hands on her knees, saying “Come here little guy, come here,” wanting to befriend it. I had a broom and it occurred to give him a slap shot against the living room wall, but she would have never forgiven me, so I shooed it out instead.

The real coup de main, though, came one day when she was outside with me while I was working in the front yard. She said “Look Daddy, a pretty snake.” Let me tell you straight up, I hate snakes. I’m terrified of them. The mention of the word makes my bowels buckle. I don’t like looking at pictures of them. I have refused to go inside a friend’s house because he kept one of those non-shouldered, slithery, minions of Satan in his house. I want neither part nor parcel with any snake. If the two of us occupy the same piece of ground, I willingly and enthusiastically abandon my position and retreat. So when she said she saw a “pretty snake” my ears pricked up and my bowels knotted.

“Say what? Where?”

“Right there in the tree,” she replied, “he’s SO pretty.”

“Where? I don’t see any… OH!!!”

It was at least 14 feet long. OK, maybe it was only 6 or 8 feet long. My ability to estimate length is not at its best while I’m peeing myself. This thing was crawling down the tree trunk 10 feet from where we were standing. The garage doors were open and I didn’t know what its intentions were, though I’m positive they were not at all noble. I ran inside and grabbed an 8 foot long 2X4 because I didn’t have one that was longer than that, and I took my battle station. Normally I would have run away, but I am a Dad and I was determined not to let it eat my little girl and besides, if it’d gotten in the house I’d have had no choice but to burn it to the ground. She took a couple steps toward it and said “Daddy, don’t hurt it.” I grabbed her collar and I told her “As long as he goes the other way, I won’t but if he comes one inch in this direction, I’m gonna give him a headache he’ll never forget.” Fortunately, he went the other way and my outside work came to a screeching end. Besides, I needed dry pants.

So now I’m left with the conundrum of a lifetime. I love the fact that she wants to learn and remembers every little detail. I love her innocence. I don’t want to translate my fears onto her and I want her to do what makes her happy. Still, if I have to turn on the TV and see her holding a snake telling the audience “Aw, she’s a beauty,” it may be more than my aging innards can bear.