I didn’t grow up in a zoo, but it often seemed like it with several horses, dogs, cats, pigs, turtles, hamsters, and my grandma’s parakeet, which had a penchant for whistling out cat-calls.

Today we have a special section dedicated to the four-legged family members. I call them family members because that’s what they are, and I’ve got a pretty good example to back it up.

Homelessness and poverty are some of the ongoing issues I’ve reported about a lot over the years, and there are many food drives for pet food donations, because it is common for those in need to feed their pets before taking care of themselves.

After all, that’s what families do for each other.

I don’t blame them a bit, and I’d wager many pet owners would agree that they really are just furry kids and their feelings toward their owners are mutual.

I didn’t know just how true this is until I returned to my hometown for the first time in five years last March — I went through a bit of a nomad phase after college, and this was the first time my old pets had seen me since then.

Skype, phone calls, text messages and Facebook made the distances seem like no big deal, but it was a very big deal for the animals.

When I left, I had shaggy hair and no beard. When I returned, my hair was buzzed and I had a full beard and that meant my old dog, Eddy, didn’t recognize me from a distance when we pulled into the driveway.

Guard-dog mode initiated and he came barreling out the door ready to charge at this newcomer — then he caught my scent.

Barks immediately turned into whines and cries and that 75-pound blue heeler mix was trying his hardest to jump into my arms and crawl under my legs at the same time. He couldn’t decide which was best, so he just went for both and it ended up being more of a series of tackles.

Of course, he had to show me all of his new toys and would sprint from one end of the house to the other with different bones and balls — but, coordination went straight out the window as he slid on the hardwood floors, knocked into every piece of furniture and somehow lost use of his hindlegs and just dragged his back end across the couch when trying to jump onto my lap.

His erruption of happiness lasted hours and the rest of the farm was alerted by his howls. By the time he calmed down, my black jacket was completely coated in white fur.

Just a few steps into the barn, and the horses were rearing up for some long overdue attention, and even my 17-year-old cat, Sassy, was back to her usual routine of perching on my shoulder.

When I was growing up, there were a lot more than just those pets milling around and some were in unexpected places. For instance, our turtles were kept in our upstairs bathtub when they weren’t exploring the kitchen — much to the startlement of some new guests.

For everyone else, it was completely normal to share the restroom with some red-eared sliders or have a big fat sheep-dog snorting at the dinner table.

Now I don’t have any pets and every day it seems like something is missing.

But, I’m making plans to change that and I’ve already got my next dog’s name picked out — Wally Cronkite, named after the most trusted man in journalism, Walter Cronkite. This way, when anyone asks what breed he is, I can tell them he is a news hound and that’s why he will often tag along while I work.