Under Pressure
Life is filled with lots of big decisions. What to do for a living? Who to spend the rest of our lives with? When to start a family? Where to settle down? But there’s one decision that is more pressure-filled than all others.
That is the pressure of buying toys and beds for your pets.
Pets are fickle when it comes to these things. You cannot figure out what they will or won’t like. Because of this, there’s more pressure and time spent buying your pet a $4 toy than picking out some multi-thousand-dollar bedroom set for yourself.
I have a cat, named Mogwai. She will play with the drawstrings on the blinds in my living room, batting them around like she’s playing a schoolyard game of Tetherball. But if I stop in a pet store and buy her an elaborate cat toy, she’ll look at it once and walk away. Pet stores should have a Cash For Cat Toy Clunkers program, so we can get some money back on shunned toys.
Months ago, I noticed my cat loved lying on blankets that I’d fold and set down momentarily. I decided to take a big chance. Not unlike the chance a fella takes when he begins shopping for, and eventually buying, an engagement ring. Will she say Yes? Will she like the ring? I was at Target, staring at pet beds and felt this same pressure.
If I was a cat, I’d totally dig this bed, I thought. But will she? Will the colors catch her eye? Is the bed big enough, comfortable enough? Will she accept this cat bed I’m giving her? My cat’s never had a pet bed. This would be a big move for her, choosing to walk over to this thing, and using it to sleep in rather than having the freedom to sleep wherever she wants at night.
I committed to it. I dropped $18 on a pet bed. I figured, if she didn’t like it I’d see if my parents’ pets liked it, or donate it to the Humane Society.
I brought it home and noticed it came with catnip. Y’know. Kitty weed. I sprinkled a little catnip inside the bed fibers and set the bed near the window in the sunlight. I stepped back, took a knee, crossed my fingers, and watched for her reaction. And wouldn’t you know it? She flipped out. No, literally, she rolled around in the bed, flipping over and over, getting the catnip all in her fur. But she accepted my offer.
It was such a sigh of relief, for me. For months, now, she’s been using the pet bed on a pretty regular basis. It’s a sigh of relief for me, because while I still don’t know what I want to do for a living, who I want to spend the rest of my life with, when to start a family of my own, or where I want to settle down, I can at least look at all my married, career-established friends with pets and their dozens of unused toys and beds, and know that I accomplished something they couldn’t, yet.
And for me, right now, I’ll take a victory, no matter how minor it is.
That Which We Call A Pet By Any Other Name …
You see, I want kids some day. I do. But until I know I’m ready for the smell of Satan’s outhouse in the form of a child’s diaper responsibility, I’m taking this pet thing and running with it. Not only that, but I’m embracing my inner Tony Robbins by finding that which makes a pet actually better than a child.
Nicknames.
Oh, stop it. I just heard every parent’s computer chair squeak from jumping back, ready to huff and puff and blow my statement down. I hear you. And yes, kids get nicknames, too. But kids get nicknames that come from just shortening names or adding a “y” to it. Pets get the cool nicknames.
This is because the nicknames we give to our pets, often have nothing to do with the pet at all. It’s just names or phrases that are fun to say. Once in a while you get lucky, and it’s both, fitting and fun.
Growing up, every pet of mine had about ten nicknames. My dog growing up was called Monkey Dog, because he was a dog, but sometimes when he stood a certain way, he looked like a monkey. Hence, Monkey Dog. Could you ever get away with nicknaming your child, Monkey Kid? Hell to the no.
I’ve had a cat for seven years, now. Her given name is Mogwai. But she has more nicknames than Apollo Creed had in Rocky IV.
Moo girl. Mogwasita. Dr Moobatu. And after seeing I Love You, Man months ago, I decided it was fun to say Totes M’gotes. Lucky for me, I discovered that announcing “Hello, Totes M’gotes!” when walking in, made my cat run and greet me at the door.
Parents, I know that raising a child is as stressful as it is rewarding. I am not, and would never, take that away from you. I was driving behind a school bus once and watched a little six-year-old girl exit the bus in a snow suit that hindered all mobility, yet she scampered as fast as she could up the driveway greeting not her mom (who was still up at the front door) but instead a St. Bernard dog that was twice her size. I don’t know which was happier to see the other. I saw that, and while I was obviously aware that I was not a parent, for the first time I was cognizant of an emptiness I felt not being one, yet.
But as I said, that’s still a ways down the road. So please allow me the small victory and nugget of joy I don’t have to wait for … which is being able to do what you can’t do to your child. And that’s calling her, Mama Dookie.
This is my blog. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My blog is my best friend.
