Motley Krüse

The problem with being a mother is that the definition of success is too damned narrow. You’re either a good mother, or a bad mother. No in-betweens, no wiggle room. If we can accept gray areas in politics and potlucks, why not parenting? I say this, of course, as I bury another body in the backyard. Under cover of darkness, before my daughter gets home from the weekend away at her dad’s house. I don’t know what I’ll say when she gets here, I don’t know what would make a difference. As soon as she climbs the stairs to her room, she’ll know. Her screams will fill the house. She’ll run down to me, stupid in her grief, tears in her eyes. She’ll desperately cry, “Where is he? What did you do to Pongo?” She’ll collapse and she’ll moan and repeat these questions over and over again, even though she knows the answer. I, her mother, have killed again.

I didn’t mean to! It was an accident! How many times can something happen before accident turns into “on purpose”? Three times? Four? Under my watch, no less than six beloved creatures—animal companions, I guess you call them—have died needlessly. This time, the bird in question, Pongo, waited in vain for his water dish to be filled. I missed one day, and his beak dried shut. I swabbed it with a Q-tip dipped in olive oil, whispering prayers to St. Martin. Pongo seemed resigned to his fate, lying on his side, eyes blinking, until they closed for good.

In my defense, I’d like to note here that we have both a dog and a cat, which are thriving. I just can’t be responsible for pets that live in cages, bowls, or tanks. That’s where I get into trouble. If I forget to put water in the dog dish, he’ll belly up to the toilet like it’s happy hour at T.G.I. Fridays. If I forget to change the cat litter, she’ll poop in my shoes. Sometimes, she does this anyway to let me know who’s boss.

There were fish once, I remember, that were purchased for a child recovering from strep throat. Bright and soothing, they floated, dipped, and swirled through their underwater jungle gym of glow-in-the-dark skulls and treasure chests, surfacing for just a pinch of protein flakes, measured out by the child who loved them. Their water dimmed, until a cleaning couldn’t be put off. As the child slept, I carried the tank into the kitchen, scooped out the fish, and put them into a large mixing bowl full of treated water. I emptied the dirty tank, scrubbed it, and carefully replaced the skulls and treasure chests. I put the drops in the tank. Then I refilled it using water from the hot tap rather than the cold, realizing my mistake seconds after I tossed the fish back in. It was after midnight, when a lot of those crappy household tasks get underway in the home of a single mother. I sat on the counter, patting myself on the back for a dirty job well done, watching them swim furiously for a couple of moments. Until I saw the steam rising from the tank. I plunged my hands into the tank, but it was too late. I flushed their tiny bodies down the pipes and made up a half-baked story the next day. But everybody knew.

There was a time when I thought digital pets might be the answer, but it’s not the same. When my daughter gets home tonight, my only recourse is to tell her the truth, and hope to God the Buddhists are wrong.

Colleen Kruse is a Twin Cities actress and comedian who knows how to deal with stalkers, so don’t even try.