“Hey, I want to show you something.”

My mother whispered the words, shaking me awake a few minutes earlier than usual on a school day, doing her utmost not to disturb my brother in the adjacent bed. I never knew her to disappoint in her eagerness to share surprises with me and my siblings, so I stumbled out of bed willingly. She was notorious during our upbringing for her inability to await anything in which her children might find pleasure, even going so far as to allow us to open a gift, or two, or three, prior to Christmas, and this without any of our relatively patient, young trio begging to do so.

She led me from the bedroom through the fading darkness, past the kitchen, out the back door, and into the garage.

“Look!” she uttered softly with a wide-eyed grin.

Following her extended finger, my eyes landed on a deep, ample pot roast pan, serving in its retirement as our black cocker spaniel’s water bowl. Sissy, the family canine, did not figure prominently in this scene, at least not in my memory, which is surprising considering what I saw next. The truth was, her instinctive rage against other living things who dared to cross her territory seemed to belie a desperate need to compensate for her poorly-chosen moniker. More about that later.

In any event, swimming vigorous laps around the inner perimeter of the pot, as if training solo for the rodent summer Olympics, was a large, common, mangy rat. Clearly, his tiny arms were ill-equipped to extricate himself out of the pot and over the edge of this unlikely critter-sized pool to effect an escape. How he found himself trapped in this watery prison in the first place was anyone’s guess.

I knew not what to make of this scene, certainly not at this early hour or at such an impressionable age. My mother, on the other hand, found it uniquely amusing. There is, however, a time for everything, as Ecclesiastes reminds us, including mirth and extermination, as I would soon discover. As disappointingly as this random rat’s day had begun, it was about to get much, much worse.

After a moment or two, my mother — my sweet, gentle, loving mother — resourcefully reached for one of my father’s thick-soled flip-flops and leaned over the pan. With one narrow end of the rubber foot-piece, she pressed down firmly upon its body, held it under as it struggled desperately for air, and didn’t release until the water stilled. And so, I began my day witness to the torturous execution of one of God’s precious living creatures.

Have a good day at school.

My siblings and I would be party to this scene at least once more when another rat found its way later into our backyard. My mother, now well-versed in the dark art of drowning small mammals, decided to make a memory of the moment and, in the spirit of doing things together as a family, had us dutifully empty a trash can, grab a hose, and, with the assistance of my brother, corner the unlucky animal and drop him into the waiting container. As the waters rose, the descent of a broomstick upon his tapered snout would be his last and final vision.

15 years later, having begun my first year of grad school and living on my own for several years, I decided, at long last, it was time for a pet. Perhaps guiltily remembering the misfortune of the two rodents’ watery graves at my childhood home, I settled on not a dog, not a cat, but — you guessed it — a rat. And not just one, but two. Rex and Ed, whom I acquired domesticated from a local schoolteacher, were treated to a 4-foot tall, multilevel cage and occasional forays around the apartment (I had a “thing” then about pets and space). I am certain management would not have looked favorably upon this arrangement, but I wouldn’t have them long enough to learn. In less than a year, I found them more trouble than they were worth and sold them off to another. My time living solo would see me also adopt a dog, Fred, whom I had to relinquish after a brief span due to a move, as well as a string of betta fish that managed to expire prematurely each in remarkably different and tragic ways.

We Americans love our pets. This is most evident when you spend time with citizens of other corners of the world, where such devotion is hardly lavished upon animals of any size or variety. The same year I acquired Rex and Ed, I supervised a computer lab in a medical school library while working on my library science degree. Most of the part time staff were students from India, doctors in their own country but living in the U.S. earning a simple public health degree in order to allow them simultaneously to study for the MCAT and qualify for residency here. Discussions once turned to pets, and they all shared how astounded they were not only at the time and attention focused on pets but also in the existence of superstores capitalizing on their care and maintenance.

We had no such superstores in my youth, but we had more than our share of pets. Lest I leave the impression all creatures great and small trembled at the sound of my mother’s name, to the contrary, she was the reason we learned to love them and enjoyed the privilege of caring for almost all but the farm animal variety, which was my father’s experience, though more of necessity than pleasure. In any event, there are a notable few of our diminutive companions I remember with fondness.

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Snuggles the rabbit wore a salt-and-pepper gray pelt. I remember nothing of how we acquired him or how long he shared residence in our home, but he had free-reign of the backyard and was as domesticated, friendly, and trusting as any common family pet — that is, until my mother thought better and attempted to realize a version of Eden in which lion lies down with the lamb, so to speak. So, we got a dog. We “adopted” Sissy the cocker spaniel from a family in town and brought her home expecting . . . well, I’m not sure what. Amiable and happy as dogs come, Sissy warmed-up to us immediately. Snuggles, however, was not afforded such courtesy. A single glance, and Sissy flew blindly at Snuggles with murder instinctively on her mind. Alas, there would be no Edenic animal paradise here. Never before or since have I heard a rabbit scream in abject terror as he fled as fast as his legs would carry him. Fortunately for Snuggles, we found ourselves nimble enough to come between them before Sissy captured her prey.

I have no theories as to the relations between beasts prior to the Fall, but if they existed in relative harmony, such theology had never crossed our spaniel’s mind, nor was it likely to be pondered. Someone had to go, it was decided. One would think Snuggles’s seniority and status as the offended plaintiff would secure her a favorable verdict, but it was determined she would stand a better chance of survival in exile. So, in a cruel twist of fate, the defendant won the day. We carried him to the edge of an overgrown acreage of brush, set him down, and watched and waited as he cautiously wandered into the wild unknown. I long imagined that he found himself an untamed, feisty partner and raised a warren of bunnies. The more likely scenario pictures him, curiosity sated, hopping back to the recently vacated grassy entrance, wondering where we were and when lunch would be served.

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Gary Larson’s “The Far Side” was among my favorite comic strips growing up. A single-frame was all he required to convey his quirky perspective on the humor he found in the world. Among the most memorable for me was one in which a professor dons his latest invention designed to interpret what dogs are, in fact, communicating through their incessant barking. As he ambles patiently through a neighborhood much like mine or yours with clipboard in hand, dogs scattered about behind backyard fences or chasing cars yip and yap, as they are prone to do. The domed machine resting atop his head tuned meticulously to receive and return understandable thoughts from the various dogs in proximity, the professor anticlimactically hears nothing but a single, simple word escaping their muzzles: “Hey!”

Our canine friends throughout the world may speak the same primitive language purposed merely to gain another’s attention, but they uniquely understand our own and only our own, especially if we have trained them to do so. We found this to be true while living in Ukraine briefly in the early 90s. There, once our family was settled into our own place, my mother once again found a way to introduce a pet into our home. “Wookie,” she called her — a small, unattractive mutt with a wispy, stringy black and white coat that traveled in all directions of the compass. Her sweet, affectionate character made up for her lack of beauty, and we fell in love with her. Her favorite places were seated atop your lap or lying down with her head nestled contentedly on your shoulder with her body in the crook of your arm.

Though she was birthed in Eastern Europe, she soon departed her litter and was gifted to us, having little or no time to learn the local dialect. Living with us instructed her ears to comprehend basic English and English only. Once we did give her over to the care of other nationals the following year after returning to the U.S. for a two-month furlough, we learned later that her most common posture soon after resembled the confused, blank stare of a Western tourist anytime Ukrainians issued commands in her general direction. She hadn’t a clue what she was being told. When we returned after furlough, we visited the village at which we had left her to attend a service. Toward the hour’s end, an animal cautiously entered the auditorium nearest stage left. It was Wookie, investigating, no doubt, after hearing her first language spoken and sung. We were greeted with wild delight once she saw us, though she was to remain under the care of her second family.

Her penchant for demonstrative affection was matched only by her generosity as a gift-giver. I never before would have imagined that an animal could express such a human characteristic, but she did so on more than one occasion, though in her own misunderstood fashion. One otherwise typical morning comes to mind.

My brother and I slept on couches that doubled as beds in a space that quadrupled in function as bedroom, dining room, schoolroom, and living room. Soon after the sun rose, Wookie would routinely wander in, hop onto each of our beds, and excitedly soak our faces with puppy licks and awful breath — the latter potent enough to knock us out a bit longer. She would trot off back to the kitchen to rejoin my mother, satisfied with a job well-done.

Now, in places like eastern Ukraine at that time and earlier, one did not purchase groceries indoors at a store but often in an “open-air” market outdoors. You brought your own bags and loaded them up with produce. A cut of meat came not in a package but was placed in wrappings after indicating to the butcher the size of the cut, in much the same way one would extend one’s hands prevaricating about the size of the fish you caught over the weekend. Chicken was typically acquired whole, de-feathered and headless but organs intact. What you didn’t use could be discarded or fed to the dog.

You may see where I’m going with this.

Mom would sometimes get an early start on lunch or dinner in the morning, and Wookie was all too happy to serve as her audience in hopes of receiving scraps, which she often did. Having the kind and generous heart she possessed, there was no question as to whether or not to share. In this regard, she was notorious for regifting.

She arrived in the morning as was her custom, hopped onto our beds to say “good morning” in her own special way, and quietly departed. Stirring several minutes later, I sat up and observed something on the blanket that could only be described as small, round, purple, and, after a touch that inspired a reflexive, disgusted recoil of my hand . . . squishy. Baffled as to what this clearly organic substance might be and how it found its way to my bed, I soon received an answer from my brother’s end of the room.

Leaping out of his sheets as if struck by lightning, my brother yelped, startled, he said, by something cold and wet against his skin. Pulling aside the covers, there we discovered, likewise, formerly living matter, though quite dissimilar to the mysterious soft sphere atop my sheets. There beneath the covers, as if slumbering peacefully beside her partner, were the remnants of an entire, intact chicken carcass.

Mystery solved, Wookie revealed the answer to yet another we had no interest in solving. If size matters, our compassionate, foreign pet had a clear favorite, though it would seem she possessed a remarkable emotional intelligence. She concealed, after all, the larger of the two gifts, I can only assume in an effort to protect my feelings. In any case, all I got was a measly purple organ.

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Dad had little interest in pets. Cats, even less. So it was no surprise when my sister begged to take one in from a litter left at the stable where she took riding lessons that his first and unequivocal response was a curt “no.” That should have been the end of it, except that daughters often have their fathers wrapped around their little fingers, as we all know. That, and my mother is both persuasive and persistent. She quickly warmed to the idea of a feline — an animal we had not yet auditioned for the role of family pet — so dad never really had a chance, though he did have the final say.

“Smudge” arrived at our home in north country New York, squarely in the brief adolescent stage of his life. Solid white save the small, almost indiscernible “smudge” of gray/black hairs on his forehead, he was a beautiful cat with plenty of personality to spare.

I will admit I often treated him like a younger sibling one loves to harmlessly pester, just to get a reaction. I recall running him up and down the stairs endlessly chasing a ball made of aluminum foil simply for the pleasure of laughing at the sight of a cat panting like a dog. When I wasn’t wearing him out on the stairs for this purpose, the same ball was employed to launch him into the air like a rocket. Let me explain.

Smudge might be, say, in the kitchen, around the corner and out of sight. I would squat on the floor of the den, leaning forward with my elbows touching the floor, face forward and low to the ground, the ball held in my right hand and directly in front of my face. I would wait, still and quiet, for him to unsuspectingly enter the room. Once he did, as soon as his eyes met mine, he would quickly assume the same posture, eyes wide as saucers, eagerly waiting to pounce on his spherical prey. After a moment or two, I would throw the ball high into the air, and he would launch himself from the ground no less than five to six feet to intercept. We still have a photograph of this scene, and I swear it isn’t a doctored pic. If you didn’t know any better, you might be persuaded our cat hailed from Krypton, preferring to fly from room to room in the house.

I could tell many more stories of Smudge, such as the time he caught a mouse in the basement and, being an indoor denizen, didn’t know what to do with it except bring it upstairs and stare at it, terrified as it was to move a muscle; or when, at the suggestion of a veterinarian, my parents dosed him with Benadryl to make him a more compliant traveler as they prepared to move. If you’ve ever wondered what it looks like to get a cat drunk, well, use your imagination.

In the end, Smudge found himself with only my parents, long after all of us had left the house and moved on with our lives. Ironically, the one family member most resistant to form an attachment was the one he attached to most stubbornly, as if he loved a challenge. Each morning, for as long as Smudge remained the family pet, my father could barely maneuver from one place to another without tripping over him as he snaked affectionately around his legs.

The day eventually arrived — the unwelcome visit to the vet — and my parents carried him there. With no options left, the decision was made to help him pass. It remains the only pet for which my father shed tears.

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These days, our kids woefully regret that my wife and I have little or no interest in pets. She grew up with none, and I grew up with all of them, enough to know that, while I enjoy them, I no longer have interest in taking care of them. We have allowed a guinea pig that goes by the name of Charlie, maintained (with many reminders) by our middle. While it has persuaded me that it may be one of the easiest pets to manage, there remain minor annoyances. Its greatest talents, I’ve discovered, are depositing innumerable droppings wherever our daughter has placed her unwillingly, or, if she manages an escape, instinctively hiding in the closest, darkest corner of the house, most often in a location impossible from which to remove her without an hour’s worth of coaxing or heavy lifting, if it happens to be beneath a piece of furniture.

In any event, unless our kids bring home a stray (they’d make a zoo of the house if we would allow it), I’d say my days of pet care and maintenance are done. But I’m thankful for the stories I can tell and the experiences of caring for them. I think pets can help us, especially in our most tender years, learn the virtue of compassion, and, hopefully, apply the characteristic to all living things. “Pets are humanizing,” said James Cromwell. “They remind us we have an obligation and responsibility to preserve and nurture and care for all life.”