So I've been thinking about getting a kitten--or having another baby (Stop! Don't yell at me!). But, I think a baby would be a bad call since I'm already, like, in full weeds mode and kinda postal by 4 p.m every day. (Also, I'm past the "advanced maternal age" definition, and as my friend said, "Am I okay having a kid with three arms?" Eight might be cool...Octobaby!)
Anyway...Therefore, I looked into getting a kitten today. Or a cat. Problem is: my dog is a hunting dog, and, yes, she would hunt it and try to kill it. In fact, she has been banned from going to the doggie daycare place she stayed when we went away (which, really, doesn't matter since we can't ever get away anymore (#toddlersruinvacations)). Apparently, what we initially thought was "cute stalking" of the cat at the daycare turned into, "Um, Alex, I think Hadley tried to eat the cat. She took a pretty significant chunk of hair off of it. Maybe I'll call you when the cat dies, and you can return." I thought that was pretty funny, and when I ran into her, I did ask if her cat was dead (#Ihavenoboundaries). But it's not. Too bad...I mean, wait...that's awesome it's living (not)!
So, in the interest of not killing a new kitten, I emailed our dog's breeder, and he said we could definitely get a cat. Score! But, there was a caveat...(or should we say "catveat?" Barump bump (um, no): it would take THREE MONTHS OF HARD TRAINING TO GET HER TO NOT KILL IT. Hold the phone there, breed-boy! Say whaaaaaaaa? Three months of hard training? I can't even get my kid trained to dump in the potty instead of the yard. I definitely suck in the training department. Uh-un. Not gonna happen. And three months? Oy. That's like the first trimester of pregnancy. In that case, I might as well get prego (not that it's easy...and it would be even harder as a octogenarian).
Okay, so next pet: a fish? Well, we tried that already. His name was Flash, because he was red and my son likes that superhero. And I am SO effing lame, because I was too stressed to handle--get this--a beta fish. Yeah, that's right! A beta fish sent me over-the-top. This is what happened: I got my son a fish, because he really does want one. But, it was biting-ass cold in the middle of this forever-winter (#climatechange), and when I would go to bed at night, I'd freak out that the fish would freeze if I left him downstairs when the heat was not really above 65. So, therefore, I'd bring Flash upstairs with me every night at bedtime, put him on my dresser, and I'd turn the heat up for him. Meanwhile, I'd be full on melting like a chicken nugget under a fry o'later all night, just so the damn fish wouldn't get cold. Really??? Well, after a few weeks of this, Flash had to go. So I surreptitiously brought him back to the pet store without my son seeing me, and I told them that it was too stressful for me. The lady looked at me like a complete freakazoid, but she nicely took Flash back. And that is the story of the fish.
Well, alas, it looks like my dreams of caring for something new may be out. If anyone wants to be my foster baby or pet, let me know.
More from living