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Mindstates
Critters, Funerals and Holy Water
by Patricia Alfano
Latin chants and incense filled the air as I held my pet duck, Peepers in my arms. It was the annual Blessing of the Animals, and I was going to make sure my feathered friend had a prominent place in the afterlife.
I had raised Peepers from a duckling, so he was used to being manhandled by me and my five-year-old friends. He patiently endured being carried to tea parties, dressed in doll clothes and forced to attend theatrical performances that sometimes went on for hours. Now, he was about to be anointed for his unconditional love.
Exactly when the tradition of blessing animals began has as many stories as a dog has fleas. Some speculate it is rooted in paganism, while others attribute the practice to early Christianity. The Natural History Museum in Los Angeles estimates that honoring pets by including them in human burials began between 9,000 and 14,000 years ago.
Early in the last century, the Catholic ceremony was held January 17, the day of San Antonio de Abad (St. Anthony of the Desert), official patron saint of animals. Currently, it is held either in the spring (because of better weather), or around October 4, honoring St. Francis of Assisi, who is known for his love of animals. Sometimes St. Clare, an Italian noblewoman who chose a life of poverty, is also recognized. Notably, St. Clare was a vegetarian.
With his beak nestled in the crook of my arm, Peepers ignored the parade of relatively well-behaved animals making their way to the main altar. We gingerly inched our way up the aisle alongside Brother Fox and Sister Fish while Cousin Goat trailed behind, nibbling on the fringe of my jacket. Behind the goat was the neighborhood science geek carrying a jar of algae. An assortment of mutts attempted to mate with the ankles of strangers, while a poodle named Princess had a small accident near one of the statues. But all was forgiven. It was their day.
The bishop, a wiry old man who was able to fling holy water with pinpoint accuracy, stood behind a railing that protected him from the horde. Amidst a cacophony of hosannas, animal sounds and a parrot singing I Left my Heart in San Francisco followed by loud swearing, the menagerie was blessed. A few drops of holy water landed on Peeper’s head, but he was unfazed as he slept soundly in my arms; his little duck body warm against my chest.
The ceremony concluded with a sermon encouraging the animals to live in peace with one another. I don’t think the critters were entirely convinced, because just then a nasty fight broke out between Sparkles the cat and something that was either a rodent or a Chihuahua.
Growing up, I remember most traditions like this as fun, if for no other reason but to socialize and find out the latest gossip. We fasted or feasted, sang or were silent, and mourned or celebrated on queue. There was one big exception—and that was the ritual of burying our dead.
Funerals in my family were spectacles of unbelievable proportion. Part religious ceremony, part theater and part Roman feast, they defied description and encouraged outrageous and unconventional behavior.
For instance, we have a tradition where anyone who wishes to speak after the funeral Mass may stand at the podium and do so. It was not unusual for folks to pepper their feelings of loss with political statements, or squeeze in a free advertisement if they provided services for the event. Mostly the opportunity was used to voice any suppressed feelings people had for relatives, siblings or in-laws.
The holy water droplets were still wet on the silk-draped casket at Uncle Federico’s service when Aunt Rosalie decided to take the podium and air her long list of grievances against the family of the deceased. This instigated heckling from the audience, which quickly turned into a shouting match.
“Sfacciato,” (cheeky) my cousin angrily commented after the service was over and we shuffled out the door. Heated words were still being exchanged as we negotiated our way down the steps to greet Uncle Enrico, who was holding a watermelon. Food always provided the necessary balm to prevent murder from taking place at these events and the watermelon was Uncle Enrico’s contribution to keeping the peace.
Funeral traditions were held in honor of my pets, too. Our yard was filled with the buried remains of all my beloved non-human friends. Shoeboxes were saved for the parakeets, canaries, lizards and hamsters, while the cardboard boxes that once contained appliances worked for the larger breeds. The elaborate pet burials were followed by tear-filled tea parties where we talked about Rex or FiFi.
My childhood friends and I learned a lot about loving and caring for animals from the feathered, finned, scaled, shelled, and fur people. Our experiences helped us through the landmines of childhood and taught us to love and care for each other in the process.
That love and support would sustain me the day I returned from kindergarten and was met with eerie silence instead of Peeper’s loud and clumsy greeting. Frantically, I searched the house, the yard and the water-filled tub looking for him. Concern turned to panic as I ran back and forth calling his name.
My mother sat me down and explained that Peepers had to be taken to a park with a small pond. He had drawn complaints from the neighbors with his constant quacking while I was at school and I could no longer keep him.
The room began to spin and I became hysterical, begging to be taken to see him. Afraid of my uncharacteristic behavior and uncontrollable sobbing, she obliged.
The pond was enclosed by a cyclone fence that tore the skin on my fingers as I tried to pull it down. Anxiously I ran back and forth, shaking the fence and calling to him.
“Where is he? Where? I don’t see him!”
A similar duck was pointed out to me as my beloved pet. But I knew it wasn’t. There was no eye contact, no fat little body swaying up to greet me. No familiar quack.
Sadly I went home with a heart so heavy, I thought it would fall out of my chest and onto the floor where we once played. Days passed, then weeks, then years. I was in my late teens when during the course of a conversation, one of my relatives revealed to me that Peepers had been given away to someone who later sold him to a butcher.
I thought about his last moments on Earth. Did he know what was happening? Did he wonder where I was, or think someone would come to rescue him? Just how much awareness do the beasts that we dismiss as dumb actually have?
Decades later, I still think about my little friend and whenever I see the familiar procession of the traditional Blessing of the Animals, I offer up a prayer for Peepers.
Patricia Alfano lives in beautiful Ocean Beach, CA and works at a local university. Contact her at pat_alfano@hotmail.com or visit her blog at www.bohemianopus.com.