Like many of you, my childhood house was blessed with a menagerie of animals. At one time we shared a home with two parakeets who were always mysteriously losing their feathers, a paranoid Siamese cat named Seesewat, a box turtle who had no name, and a springer spaniel who sometimes answered to the name Pepper. 

At one time we also claimed a tank of tropical fish, but some died and the rest were sold so that I could buy a lizard. Unfortunately…or fortunately, depending on one’s point of view—the lizard’s visit was cut short when the wonderful lady who helped with the cleaning steadfastly refused to enter my room as long as the lizard was in residence. Given the usual state of my room, the lizard was sent quickly into exile. 

The chapters of our family’s history are probably best defined by those animals who have been in residence during any given time. For example, I was in early elementary school during the Pepper Period. A neurotic springer spaniel who was a complex mixture of equal parts lion and lamb. She barked ferociously when she heard someone at the door, but once the door was open and a word said, she became gentle as a lamb. 

Instead of being bitten, a stranger was more likely to get a wet foot, for Pepper was never able to control her bladder in the presence of someone she didn’t know. Needless to say, the practice of meeting people at the door first with assurance that Pepper would not bite and then with the warning of a nervous bladder, while extending one hand in welcome and clutching a paper towel in the other, is disconcerting. We grew accustomed to the procedure; sadly, most guests did not.

Thomas Aquinas once suggested that every creature has the capacity to reveal the nature of God’s creation. In this sense, Pepper is a reminder that behind the blustery, aggressive exterior there often lives someone who is sensitive and insecure. We learn early in life, usually to our detriment, that the best defense is a strong offense.