My father had a weakness for strays, so I grew up with an ever-changing menagerie that waxed and waned as they came and went. Some, too broken or dependent to go back to the wild, stayed; others were eager to heal and head for home. He had a soft spot for the rejected and unwanted, the maligned, the mangy, the motley and even the nefarious: raccoons, skunks, crows, a caiman he must have smuggled back with us from Florida, even a lonely squirrel monkey he spotted at the mall. And, of course, there were all the usual suspects: canaries, budgies, dogs, rabbits, hamsters, fish and a funky-smelling stray tomcat named Wally Walnuts, along with the ducks and chickens. It all seemed perfectly normal to me.
I loved all the animals,…
