Once like a year ago I gave up reading a blog because the author of it casually mentioned that she thought abortion was “straight-up murder” (plus she was kind of a hate read anyway and like, #GOODVIBESONLY) and for some reason I feel like admitting that I think it’s gross when people say things like “fur babies” and/or “fur mommy” might be equally as divisive a topic as pregnancy termination. At the risk of alienating more people than I usually do in the course of a day, I’m going to say this anyway:  I think it’s weird when people refer to their pets as kids in a way that is even remotely serious. THERE I SAID IT. I think it’s weird. I do. The absolute worst is when people have a human child and then some dogs or something and they call them ALL “the kids.” BLUUUGH. It feels like someone planted feathers in my back and then vigorously rubbed them in the direction directly opposite to the one in which they were planted. BLAGH. BLURG. I just, blachhh, I can’t. It makes me think of a fully-functioning adult in a diaper and a giant baby bonnet. Animals are babies for like two seconds and then they’re adults. 

I’m definitely guilty of saying things like “COME TO MOMMY” to pets, or like “WHAT A CUTE BABY YOU ARE. YOU ARE THE CUTEST BABY. BABYBABYBABY,” etc. You know. As one does. I often greet adult humans in a similar way. But kasd;fbjhyiu  at people suggesting in a tone that even resembles seriousness that they are parenting a cat or a dog or a weasel. You are not. You are categorically NOT. Our relationships with the animals in our lives are their own thing. We can and should serve other living things, including other humans, and be invested in their welfare and love them, but that doesn’t mean we’re parenting that living thing. Of course it doesn’t. That is absurd. 

Don’t mind me, in grief I’m prone to pontification. (Also to being kind of dramatic and rude and making grand, sweeping statements.) (Also to being irritated at/resentful of other people’s behavior.) (Seriously though stop acting like that. It’s really, really terribly terrible.) (Also to eating three cookies before 10AM.) Saying goodbye to Arwen has left a cavernous space in the center my ribcage. We let her go before the worst of it, and she fell asleep for the last time on a sunny morning in front of an open window in our apartment (through which we could hear birds chirping aggressively) (her favorite) and she had her little princess face in the crook of my arm and Diego’s chubby fingers on her back. My baby. My little angel baby. Who actually is not an actual angel. Just so we’re clear. Because there’s no such thing as heaven. (ARE YOU GOING TO STOP READING ME.) 

I had dreams about white cats for days, and the morning after a particularly strange one about teeny tiny kittens under the floorboards I suddenly and powerfully wanted to adopt another cat. And then I showed up at Diego’s workplace with coffee (to draw him out) (it was really hard, he misses our stinky chubby furball) and tricked him into accompanying me to the ASPCA so that we could take home the biggest, bitiest cat they had. I never, ever in a million years thought I’d react that way – I assumed I’d mourn her, petless and tearful, for at least the next decade, until my teenage daughter brought home a scrawny feline that I’d at first mistake for a rat and then fall in love with and thus continue the cycle. Instead, we brought home a giant black and white boxer who was at the shelter for the better part of a year because they “kept having to put him on bite hold.” And he’s adjusting just beautifully. And if Arwen were around she’d think he was really, really handsome. The hoe bag. <3 p="">

But it’s been hard to watch him stalk around corners, smelling Arwen, waiting for her to jump out at him. 

I am too, little buddy. I am too. 

/drama

(but not really, not ever)