Being a reader of Gerald Durrel and James Herriot, one of my greatest projects as a child was to have a pet. Since my parents thought raising me and my brother was a circus enough they refused to entertain any requests. My dad humoured me buying books on animals, puppy care and the like. Not one to be cowed down easily I used to regularly bring home many of God's creatures great and small. More often small than great. A procession of caterpillars, snails, earthworms, an occasional slug and once a dead butterfly were reared by me at home. The last was a bit tragic as the butterfly began its after-life being stuck to a money-plant leaf with honey.

I have fond memories of a baby squirrel that was briefly my pet for three days. The squirrel spent the days sleeping, cocooned in a scarf that I tied around my neck. Sometimes it would scamper up my person if I left it on the floor and took a few steps away. On its second day as my pet it mistook my brother's friend for my warm self and scampered up his person. After an amazing display of acrobatics synchronized with high-pitched yelps, he grabbed the squirrel and flung it. Though my pet was not physically bruised, I think it suffered considerable psychological trauma which caused it to sink its teeth into my finger the next morning when I was trying to feed it milk with an ink dropper. The ingrate! My parents comforted me and then proceeded to advise me on the dreadful diseases one could get from squirrels, which are rodents. My gardener was asked to put the squirrel back on the tree. I hope my brother's friend can rest easy knowing he had turned a harmless creature into a beast with a taste for blood!

My last pet episode was also short-lived. It was a baby mynah bird. I called Blue Cross and was advised to feed it insects, mashed banana, bread and milk. Since we are a vegetarian household I couldn't offer the mynah a juicy bug but the rest of the diet was easily procured. The mynah proved to be a demanding creature. It would to wake up at an ungodly hour in the morning and start screeching to be fed. It would hide behind the furniture and squawk till I fished it out. My mother refused to feed it in my absence so I had to take it to my office in a basket and hide it behind the filing cabinet. Almost got fired when it started cheeping its head off for its lunch when the boss was prowling in the vicinity of the filing cabinet. This went on for a week after which I realised the impracticality of raising a bird without the support of my family. Of course cleaning up after its droppings was another factor that speeded up my decision to leave it at the Blue Cross. But I cried on the way back.