Is You Am a Dog?
Girl-child has decided she wants a pet of her own.
(Excuse me whilst I commence sighing in that long-suffering mom-like way that we hate to admit we indulge in.)
Of her own.
Our family has a cat, a very lovely cat, a very affectionate…albeit sleepy and persnickety…and what cat ISN’t…cat, whom Girl-child shares kisses and rolling-abouts on my bed and head-scratches and bits of cheese and tuna.
Since we’ve put the kaibosh on Girl-child having a younger sibling, she’s decided she wants to be Big Sister to Something.
Now, our family has already tried several varieties of pets:
Goldfish. They died. Horrible, water-jumping, tail-rotting deaths, even with daily checks on the charcoal filter and special drops in the water and just the right amount of food and sunlight.
Hamster. Nah. Too bitey. Not affectionate. Hard to cuddle.
Dog. As kids, we thought we were Dog People. Until we got one as grownups. Then, as much as we tried, it wasn’t a good fit. We’re gone all day, and gone most nights for sports or meetings or whatnot, and there wasn’t enough time or space or patience (damn ‘house-trained’ dog peed everywhere).
Sergei took the kids to a local mall last weekend shopping, and they happened into a pet store.
They returned with Girl-child grinning about how she’d found the PERFECT pet.
She COULDN’T WAIT to see if I approved.
Sergei smiled knowingly.
Me and vermin, well, we just don’t get along. I had a hamster after college, and it freaked me out such (with its albino skin and red eyes) that I had to release it into the wild. The hamster that Sergei brought home a few years ago I hardly ever looked at, much less took care of.
That’s NOT a pet.
That’s a Garbage Dweller.
That’s Templeton stealing apple cores at the county fair.
…just not right.
I know people that have kept pet rats. I can’t listen to their stories of their ‘cute pets’ without some amount of goosebumping and shivering and nearly-throwing-up-episodes.
I told Girl-child that a rat was NOT a good pet for us. Even though she thought they were cute and came to the glass when she tapped on it.
Any rat, any mouse, any varmit, that dares cross my threshold will find themselves in a wicked Rube-Goldberg trap of my own design, which will lead them through tunnels and swamps and right back to the Pet Store.
Mickey, be warned.