When I first moved to the Hudson Valley about 15 years ago, I was excited to leave the city life behind. I won’t say what overpopulated metropolis I left (it rhymes with Foo Sork Nitty) but I was ready to experience the peace and tranquility that reportedly comes with upstate living. I was also looking forward to communing with the animal kingdom and giving my children a taste of a more natural lifestyle.

Little did I know that tranquility and animals are kind of like matter and anti-matter. They can’t exist in the same place at the same time, or annihilation occurs.

First, we got chickens. Simple enough. In exchange for room and board they’ll provide more farm-fresh eggs than you can waggle a waddle at. Brilliant! Except nobody warned me about the Trials of Life hellscape I would be entering. Raising hens has become a never-ending battle of wits and wills with a wide variety of predators bent on poultry destruction. There have been multiple nights where I’ve found myself standing in the yard, in my underwear, with the kids’ BB gun trying to scare off a fisher or a fox or a coyote or a weasel or … you get the point. What the hell has happened to me? I was the Creative Director of Blue Man Group, for God’s sake. Now look. I should probably reiterate that I’m in my underwear when this is happening.

Okay, chickens weren’t the panacea I thought they’d be but what about other animals? How about ducks? Ducks aren’t really able to control where they lay their eggs so our property became an ongoing egg hunt. Kids never get bored of egg hunts right? RIGHT? Wrong. Repetition is the death of childhood, and it wasn’t long before scouring the yard for eggs became a miserable chore, a foot-dragging tragedy, and more evidence that mine was an oppressive regime. It all ended when a raccoon tried to pull those poor birds through a hole in the fence. It was a small hole. It was also a determined raccoon. I don’t think I’ll say anything more about that.

Guinea hens? They eat ticks. The greatest man-beast symbiosis imaginable! Except they wandered everywhere, including down the street where they’d be mauled by dogs. Over and over again. It was Sisyphian, and guess who was pushing that boulder? They were also super loud, so I was less emotionally distraught when I finally threw in the towel on that one.

Goats? Due to a serious of bizarre circumstances that involved an above-ground pool, a broken Subaru Outback, and 17 feet of plastic fencing, we inherited two African Pygmy goats. Let’s call them Dave and Rodney. (Names have been changed to protect the innocent.) Dave and Rodney liked to be on top of things like tables, woodpiles, children, and cars. When I woke one morning to find them on the roof staring down at me through the skylight I decided maybe goats weren’t for me. They were moved to an actual farm, a farm-type farm, where Rodney gave birth to a doe a few weeks later. I didn’t visit.

By this point I’m getting a little depressed and my excitement about raising some sort of living creature was waning. What about fish? Surely no disaster could befall a few aquatic companions in big pond. A quick trip to the fishery, and a lot more money than I’d anticipated later, I was dumping a bucketful of brightly colored koi into the largest body of water on our property. It wasn’t long after that I noticed a giant blue heron flying around the place. What a beautiful creature! Such grace. Such magnificence. (I think you can see where this is going.) Sure enough, I watched that huge bird swoop down and snatch up an orange, wriggling koi and swallow it whole. That cost me $12, you asshole! And another one? Good God, how about some portion control?

Bees? Yup. Did that. I got stung in the face like 14 different times, each one causing my eyes and cheeks to swell up ‘til I looked like the Toxic Avenger. You may have to be over 50 to understand what that means but trust me, it’s not a good look. On the other hand, bees meant I had a lot more interactions with bears, so there’s that.

Let’s just get two dogs. English Shepherds. Great idea except that one is so neurotic he doesn’t like toys or being outside or other dogs or people or, you know, things. He’s the only dog I’ve ever seen that puts himself in the bedroom when company arrives. The other dog is obsessed with owls and howls whenever she hears one, which is pretty much anytime I’m trying to sleep. I’m reasonably sure the owls have this all planned out. “Hey Hedwig, looks like the fat one is laying down. Let’s see if we can get him to run around in his underwear again.”

Finally, I decided to go the safe route and just get a cat. Not even a kitten. A grown cat. We found one at the shelter. His name is Hobbes. The worker said Hobbes “needed an active home” which should have clued me in but, as you may already have observed, I can be a little dim. What she should have said is that he’s a maniac who runs around the house yelling at the top of his lungs before pouncing on Owl Dog, who starts tearing through the house while Neurotic Dog hides in the tub. And for some reason when Hobbes meows, it sounds like a little kid crying “Why?”

Just imagine living with a roommate who had no job, didn’t help out at all, pooped in the laundry room, and just wandered around yelling “why” all day and night. It’s absolutely mental.

So whatever desire I had for animals in my life has died. The dogs and cat and four hens are still around but they represent the end of the critter stage of my life. There will be no new pets, beasts, or living things allowed into my circle of trust, although a guy I know has two alpacas that need a home …