If You Ask Me (12 page)

The first amazing thing you see as you enter is a huge whale shark swimming in an enormous pool. A bridge enables you to stand and watch this incredible creature as he crosses beneath you. He must be about twenty feet long and heavy-set—the biggest animal I have ever seen. That would have made the whole trip for me, but the best was yet to come.

I visited the seals and sea lions, who were enthusiastic hosts. And then I was taken to another pool even larger than the first. There, I was introduced to a very nice trainer, and I could see there was action on the other side of the pool but we were too far away to see what it was. The trainer, whose name is Dennis Christian, asked if I would like to meet their beluga whales.

How is that for the silliest question ever?

Following instructions, I rolled up the cuffs of my slacks, stepped into a pair of waders, and donned a plastic overcoat. This must have been a private area, as there was no one else around as Dennis led me along the edge of the pool. Walking in the waders was awkward, and the ledge was narrow.

I didn’t mention that I can’t swim.

We hadn’t gone far when Dennis stopped and asked me to sit down on the deck at the edge of the pool. Once I was settled and secure, he called out, “Beethoven! Come meet Betty!”

He said it only once, but immediately something big came swimming across the pool—right up to my knees. Wearing a big smile, this giant white head came out of the water and almost onto my lap.

Dennis said, “It’s okay to touch him if you want to.”

Want
to? I reached out and stroked the huge head, which felt like a hard rubber ball but looked for all the world like the aforementioned hard-boiled egg. His head was so big I had to look into his eyes, which were very small and bright, one at a time, and he looked right back into mine.

The trainer made the introductions, then said, in a most ordinary conversational tone, “Beethoven, want to show Betty your teeth?”

The white face opened to reveal a large cavern containing a row of white teeth—not jagged or pointy but almost similar to dentures. I was directed to run my finger around them, and I was amazed that this gorgeous creature took it in stride. Remembering my exchanges with elephants, I gently slapped the big pink tongue, and, sure enough, Beethoven made it clear that he thoroughly enjoyed it.

After a few minutes of this wonderful visit, Dennis said, “All right, Beethoven, you go back and send Mauris over.”

Again, he directed the animal only once, still without raising his voice, and in immediate response Beethoven backed away, turned around, and swam to the other side of the pool, where Kim, the girl trainer, sat. As he reached her, another beautiful beluga headed our way. This was the female, Mauris. Again, she greeted me but was a little more tentative. In a very few moments she relaxed, and we became friends.

Of course, I was on cloud nine.

During this whole once-in-a-lifetime experience, I was deeply impressed by the obvious rapport among these animals and their humans. It was clear to me that intellectual connection and trust were what enabled the whales’ immediate response to instruction; this was more than a case of animals obeying orders.

They were obviously involved in the interchange. Nonthreatening communication laced with a measure of passion can accomplish wonders.

It can also result in a visitor falling in love with a great white whale.

PHOTOGRAPH BY ADDISON HILL

I
work with the Los Angeles Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals often and if I’m having a meeting there, I always go through the shelter unannounced so they’re not fixing it up for my benefit. I just want to see how it is day to day.

One day about eighteen years ago, I did just that en route to my meeting. After walking through and seeing all the animals, I was just about to exit when I noticed a cage on top of a cabinet with this beautiful little shih tzu in there.

I said, “Where did she come from?”

The director said, “She’s not up for adoption yet. She’s a cruelty case. A woman paid a lot of money for her at a pet store, but when she brought the dog home, the little girl was so sick she couldn’t stand up. The woman took the dog back to the pet store, and they said, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, we’ll take care of her and give you another dog.’ ”

Thank God, the woman went back the next day to see how the puppy was, and it was not being treated or nursed back to health—it was in the window for sale! In a badly managed pet shop, viruses run rampant from one animal to another, and the care (or lack thereof) compounds that.

The woman took the store to court, and that little shih tzu puppy closed the pet shop—all by herself!

The puppy, however, couldn’t be adopted until the trial was settled, which took another three months. So during that time, the woman got another dog, because she wanted to adopt.

Meanwhile, at LASPCA I asked if they would let me know the minute the trial was settled and she was up for adoption.

Three months down the road, I got a call. They said the time was up and the little dog was eligible for adoption.

I said, “When can I pick Panda up?”

I hadn’t even been thinking of a name—it just came out. Panda. At the time I had two male dogs—a little bichon frise rescue and a mini black poodle. I worried that Panda would come in and be intimidated, but the introduction went smoothly—to the point that I could almost hear her say, “All right, boys. There are going to be a few changes in town. I’m now in charge!” And she took over and ran the house until she was sixteen and three-fourths.

BETTY WHITE PRIVATE COLLECTION

I
grew up with pets. In our house, they were more than pets—they were members of the family.

During the Depression, my dad made radios to sell to make extra money. Nobody had any money to buy the radios, so he would trade them for dogs. He built kennels in the backyard, and he cared for the dogs.

Now, radios didn’t eat, but the dogs did. So it was
not
the best business venture.

At one point we got up to something like fifteen dogs—well-loved dogs. We’d rotate them through the house in shifts, but it was clear it was not really a good plan, and we found homes for everybody but one chow and one Pekingese whom we couldn’t part with.

As far back as I can remember, my parents had animals.

My mother always told the story about Toby, their orange-marmalade cat that they had when I was born. Toby would sit on the edge of my crib, and Mom said that if Toby hadn’t approved of the new baby when I came home from the hospital, I would have been sent right back.

When my folks first came to California, we lived in Pasadena for a while. And we had a white Angora kitty named Patsy. I remember her very clearly. I don’t remember the kids across the street I used to play with, but I remember Patsy. I must have been five years old.

One day I went into the closet and came out screaming for my mother, “Patsy broke!! Patsy broke!!”

She’d had a litter of kittens, and I thought she’d come apart.

Interestingly, neither of my parents had pets growing up. But together they fell in love with animals—and, of course, it caught.

Two years ago I lost Panda at sixteen and three-fourths, and my ten-year-old golden, Kitta, and my eleven-year-old Himalayan kitty, Bob Cat. (If you didn’t like cats you called him Mr. Cat.)

I lost them all within two months, and I was just devastated.

I work closely with the organization Guide Dogs for the Blind and sponsor a guide dog every Christmas. When they heard I lost Kitta, they called me and said they had a golden career-change dog if I would be interested.

I explained, “I really am so distraught at this point, I need closure. I just absolutely can’t imagine adopting a dog right now”—pause—“but maybe I’ll come up and meet him.”

The next morning, I got on a plane and flew to San Rafael and met him. And then I got back on the plane to go home and “think it over.”

Did you ever hear anything more ridiculous? You meet a golden retriever and you’re going to go home and “think it over”? Who was I kidding? I couldn’t get my phone out of my purse fast enough when we landed.

And that’s my Pontiac. He was already named. Guide dog puppies in a litter all have the same first initial. Since he was a
P
litter (no pun intended), they named him Pontiac. I like to think of it as the Indian chief, not the car. Matter of fact, when the car company folded, I sat him down and carefully explained it was not his fault. For which I got a kiss.

Ponti went into career change because he had a bum leg. Some people say these dogs “flunked out” of school, but I absolutely refuse to use that expression. These dogs never “flunked” at
anything
.

Ponti is my only pet right now.

I want a kitty, and I want a little dog
so
bad. But I must be home to integrate them. I never took classes to learn how to integrate animals. I think I just learned it organically.

I speak better animal language than human language. I can read them like a book—although not as well as they can read me.

But with my schedule the way it is, I’m just waiting for time to supervise the introductions. That’s on my bucket list.

Now, I also have an age problem. I’m eighty-nine years old. I’ve outgrown my last puppy, but I don’t want Ponti to be my last dog. My friends Tom and Patty Sullivan have arranged that whatever pets I leave, they will take. They won’t find homes for them, they will take them in and love them.

I can’t imagine being without animals. And there are so many older dogs that need homes desperately. So that’s where I’ll look, and we can grow older together.

And then there are cats. Cats are not remote. People who think cats are that way may never have lived with a cat. My Bob, for instance. If my knee was bent, he was on my lap or on my shoulder in a flash. He followed me around the house like a dog. In bed at night, I’d reach over to turn the light out and he’d be there. For eleven years I fell asleep with that purr on my shoulder. Cats love you very much—they are just more subtle about it.

You’re never too old to adopt a pet if you look ahead and make arrangements for their future. Then relax and enjoy each other.

TONY DIMAIO/ABACAUSA. COM/NEWSCOM

H
aving spent so many years memorizing lines, I am pretty good at remembering names. (“Pretty good” is probably a euphemism.)

My problem is
faces
. They just don’t seem to register. I have no memory for faces at all. Consequently, at those gatherings where you are introduced to several people at the same time, I wind up with a bunch of names I can remember but I don’t know where to put them. I try to make silent notes in my head: JohnSmithbluetie. JaneJonespearlearrings. Sometimes those notes can carry you through a whole evening before they evaporate.