I am afraid to tell people this.  In fact, to many of my esteemed friends and colleagues I have yet to.  Until now, that is.

I am not an animal person. In fact, I preface visits to people’s houses with the question: “Any pets?”

The few people I have confided this too stare at me with a mix of exasperation and confusion. Essentially, the look people give me when I tell them that I am not much of an animal gal is that of being a blackheart.  I do not want to harm the little bastards, as cute as they are; I just am missing that ‘Aww-look-he-peed’ gene.

Let me clarify. I have a love and appreciation for all universal creatures. Bunnies make me happy, Marineland was a favourite childhood place, and I could watch monkeys play for hours. I just don’t want them touching me.  Further, it would be nice to be able to leave the animals in their natural habitat and not have to come home praying my shoes are still intact.

My “Animal Thing” only started recently.  It progressed when my fear of farm birds took epic proportions. As funny as it may be, disproportionate birds are truly terrifying. Turkeys and ostriches and even roosters literally force me into hiding. I can recall a time in my early twenties when I spent the night at a girlfriend’s place- the sight and sound of her parrot was a near cause for an anxiety attack. Loud, large birds scare me unconditionally. It is my belief that the only bird I can appreciate is Tweety.

Next came my inner gross-out for what I’d like to call ‘Deep Sea Urchins.’ Squid, octopus, fish, swimming things with claws and or tails, and the dreaded lobster are enough to make me lock myself in the bathroom. No scuba diving for me. Maybe it is the vastness of the ocean; how large and copious it is. It boggles my mind and hurts my eyes to look at bizarre creatures of the sea. I have to avert my vision to the selection of fancy breads when I see the fish tank at Sobeys. Ironically, I once applied to be a waitress at a local Red Lobster.

Alas, this does not explain my aversion to house pets.  I needed to figure out more.

I recently discovered my new pet peeve – pun intended—after a recent four day house sitting experience in which I was to look after a dear friend’s four month old bulldog.  His name is Patrick and he is beautiful. He is cute, healthy and from what everyone told me while walking him, he is extremely happy.  I get this, understand this and actually appreciate this. While this is all true, it pains me to admit that he is also restless, whiny and needs constant attention.  Earmuffs, Patrick.

The moral debate to which whether or not I am a monster plagues me daily.

“He didn’t do anything!” Retorted said puppy’s mother when I grimaced and flinched at the dog licking my toes.  Sure, not technically, unless you count the immediate hives and stick that the dog slobber had created.

“You probably had a bad experience when you were a child.” Suggested another friend, who had to keep her dog on the balcony during a recent visit. Perhaps we could equate it to a Freudian theory.

“Well, we only had Whitney for a few months before you grew tired of her.” A fuzzy feeling statement expressed by my mother in regards to my childhood dog.

Then it clicked.

I am an only child with a viciously independent streak. I enjoy doing what I want, when I want to. I am only responsible for myself and happy to have no dependants. The only people I take care of are the ones who can enjoy a glass of wine, books, laughter and chit chat. I do not relate to anything otherwise.  Pair that with the fact that growing up, I was the “Allergy Kid.” A simple slumber party in grade school resulted in being hospitalized due to pet dander dancing through my body. Aside from lip-gloss and my cell phone, a constant supply of antihistamines still remains in my purse. Oh, and an inhaler. Long haired dogs, short haired cats, it doesn’t matter how one mixes the equation. Me, plus house pet equals being uncomfortable. That appears to be the bottom line. I have been conditioned to associate house pets as a cause of anxiety.  Dogs and cats can kill me, birds and fish are frightening. I have single handily begun to actually resent these creatures who mean no harm. However, as pseudo mean as this may come across, I matter before they do. So there it is. I don’t do pets.

Exhale. Wait for the backlash.

I should learn to get over this. I actually like my friend’s animals—I just don’t want to deal with them.  In fact, my cell phone background picture is of the previously mentioned bulldog puppy.  I like them in theory, but put in close quarters I twitch and watch them and constantly monitor my breathing.  Call me what you want, but please don’t call me a monster. I have years of ill association to deal with. I have recently been contemplating donating to PETA and other animal relief foundations to ease my guilt.

Baby steps, right?

Stephanie Churma is a freelance writer and editor living in Toronto. Whilst writing this piece she twice jumped in shock when three different dogs and a pigeon clambered over to her. She can be contacted at stephaniechurma@hotmail.com

Photo Credit © Willeecole | Dreamstime.com

Tags: friendship, lifestyle, pets