Adoption

One day, many years ago, I arrived home from elementary school to find my mother and my brother seated across from each other at the kitchen table, both sobbing as if their hearts were being torn from them. This was a touch unusual, and my eyes went immediately to the most obvious likely culprit – a small, white-wire cage in the center of the kitchen table.

Obviously this was some sort of “Pandora’s Cage,” and had released the world’s anguishes or some such thing. Why else would they be enduring such suffering? I leaned closer to see for myself, since neither of my family members was capable of any sort of clear communication. Huddled in the corner of the blue-bottomed cage, hunched so that a tiny little orange-furred back was protruding in an attractively rounded manner, was an itty-bitty hamster. This was delightful, and I could determine no good reason for it to bring about such despair. Then - as I watched -the back heaved and shook in a desperate manner. A sound rose out of the small cage-corner, and I realized with shock that the delicate little thing was crying. The picture became – suddenly – very clear.

This pitiful little creature was clearly miserable, and to witness such agony did tug at the heartstrings. My inquiries as to the cause of this critter’s grief were met with gasps and scattered words: a rudimentary sort of communication that left much to the imagination. I was able to surmise that the little hamster – a female – had been purchased that very day, and that since being separated from her little hamster family she had been sobbing nonstop. This was sad, indeed. I took a few moments to absorb this sadness and then – seeing that nothing could be done for it at that precise moment – retreated to the recliner in the living room to read a book. There I did my best to ignore the sobs and wails from all three parties at the nearby kitchen table.

Things continued, much the same, for quite some time – until my father walked through the door. Upon witnessing such a scene of grief, he immediately (and – some could argue – logically) assumed that something very bad had happened. In my father’s eyes, “very bad” cannot – by definition – include any harm befalling any member of the rodent family. The demise of rodentia could – more often – be classified as “very good” in my father’s opinion. Therefore, he reasonably concluded that harm had befallen a family member. The situation was not improved by my mother’s inability to choke out an answer to his urgent inquiries. The sobs would not allow for it.

Still seated in the living room, without looking up from my book, I explained the situation to my father. His disgust was all too obvious.

From the corner of the tiny cage, in the center of the kitchen table, rose the desperate wail of the furred creature that we had – apparently – destroyed the life of in one thoughtless act. In unison, creating a surround-sound sort of effect, my mother and brother joined her.

"Dis" Own

“I’ve already told you,” stated the woman in a tight but clear voice, “If you do that, I will disown you.”

I paused, my hand resting lightly on the spine of one of the books lining the shelf in front of me. My eyes glanced over the left, and then down to the floor where a female form was seated, leaning against a bookshelf. She appeared to be in her mid-50s. Her attire was conservative – khakis and a polo shirt – and her hair was short and gray. In no way did her appearance seem out of place in the Borders store. Her conversation, however, was another matter.

“No.” She continued. “No.”

This was certainly a titillating follow-up to the first statement, and I found myself trailing my hands over the books before me in a motion that could undoubtedly be recognized as “stalling.” “What,” I wondered, “Was this act that could lead to a disownment? And who might she be talking to?”

There are only so many sorts of relationships that can qualify for the “disowned” status. I ran through them in my head. Son, daughter… The list ran out, as I became distracted by the phrase itself and whether or not this woman was applying it properly. What does it mean to “disown”? Don’t you have to “own” something before you can “disown” it? If so, in how many situations can a person legally “own” another person? As far as I know, we’ve limited those opportunities considerably in this country. Perhaps I should bring this up to her? It seems – after all – that she is trying to make a big impact with her statement. What if the person listening on the other end has had the same thoughts that I’m having? Wouldn’t the efficacy of her threats be drastically reduced?

I pondered this for a bit. She should – perhaps – threaten to cut this person out of the will, or make it clear that she will never speak to them again. “Yes,” I thought to myself, “that seems much more logical.” I took another look at her to gauge her likely level of receptiveness. Hmmm. She seemed quite engaged in her conversation. Perhaps I should wait a bit…

With that thought, I turned my attention to my hands, which had – unbeknownst to me – been engaging in a bit of mischief. They had taken to pulling out the occasional book and holding it up in front of me, as if I were seriously considering it, before tucking it back unto the shelf. The wicked little things had been doing this with an extensive selection of books that appeared to be focused on serial killers and assorted murderers. This apparent fixation with this topic - combined with the undue attention that I had been paying to the woman on the floor - could not look good for me.

Quickly, I moved to the opposing bookshelf, which was filled with Christian literature. That should confuse any observers, I thought with satisfaction. For good measure, I picked up a particularly large and noticeable book with religious words emblazoned across the cover in vivid letters. This I held prominently in front of me as I attempted to reposition myself for optimal eavesdropping.

Unfortunately for me, the conversation did not seem to be progressing much further. I could only imagine that the person on the other end was feeling a bit “put out” by threats of disownment. Sigh. ‘Twas probably for the best, anyway, since I had already extended my “break” by quite a significant chunk of time.

As I wandered toward the front door, it occurred to me that I myself happened to “own” a number of creatures – furred and feathered – and could, therefore, choose to “disown” any one of them for any reason. I smiled to myself, pleased with the realization. “Inigo,” I imagined myself proclaiming later that day to a grouchy rabbit, “If you CHOOSE to swat at me again, I will disown you.”