SYNDICATED COLUMNIST
My bachelor Uncle Vernon refused to make out a last will and testament. Twenty-one years ago, he passed away unexpectedly.
That left his beloved (but decrepit) English Shepherd dog Fred in a pickle.
Luckily, my mother volunteered to adopt Fred and care for him in his final years.
Things haven’t always worked out that smoothly for pets. According to the Wall Street Journal, it has taken automated prompts by businesses such as Trust & Will (the online estate-planning service) to remind clueless pet owners that they may predecease their “fur babies.”
(Yes, historically, people have neglected questions about the fate of “the cutest widdle buddy in the whole world, yes, him is” in favor of “Which relative has the proper home security system to safeguard my well-used, halfway-complete collection of imitation Beanie Babies?”) Complex, micro-managed pet trust funds have long been an option for the rich and famous; but more and more people are turning to less expensive “pet directives” in their will. They name a guardian, cross their fingers and hope this caretaker will faithfully administer the money that is set aside.
Some pet owners naively assume that their friends are chomping at the bit to inherit an “orphaned” pet. And, of course, when you “assume,” you “make an ass of you and me.” (“Ass? I just remembered: I need to leave that donkey to some poor suck..er, some devoted friend.”) Seriously, most visitors are merely being polite when they gush that they wish THEY had a deaf, arthritic, flatulent parrot that composes extra verses of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”
Even the finest heirs are more willing to provide a new home for stocks, bonds or jewelry. As Marilyn Monroe sang in “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,” “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend/And they don’t scoot their butts on the good carpet, either.”
A high-maintenance menagerie is the opposite of a lottery jackpot. The jackpot attracts long-lost relatives, crawling from the woodwork. Umpteen rodents, primates and reptiles, on the other hand, would compel your conjoined TWIN to flee for parts unknown.
How do you determine which friend/relative would be most likely to continue spoiling your pet instead of dropping it off in the woods or at a kill shelter? Maybe you could pick a guardian at random and then fake your own death.
Granted, when you suddenly reappear and shout, “Aha!!,” the guardian might drop dead of a heart attack, leaving you to discover that YOU were named guardian of his martial-arts-trained tarantula assortment.
And, of course, your critters themselves should get a say in where they wind up. (“Packing me off to cousin Milo’s basement? ‘Forever home,’ my rear end! Get my lawyer on the phone.”) Speaking of animals, let’s address the elephant in the room.
With many folks living paycheck to paycheck (and facing the possiblity of ruinous hospital or nursing home bills), it’s not always easy to set aside adequate money to pay for years of food, toys and veterinary care.
That’s especially if you have a “thing” for longlived species. (“You’ll love Jimmy Giant Tortoise, nephew! Someday you can bequeath him to your great-grandchildren!”) Yes, pets give so much and ask so little; but sometimes what they ask is, “God, instead of letting Mr. Faking It With the Tennis Ball suffer a slow decline, mercifully conk him with a meteor, immediately after he collects his Powerball winnings.”
