Well, several reasons, but the main one being that I know in my heart I would be a lousy mother.
I'm all fine with 15 minute bursts of fun activities and buying matching outfits, but any attempts at actual parenting would have been, as the young people say, "an epic fail".
Nowhere is this lack of parental skill more clearly manifested than in my inability to raise a normal animal.
Fiona, my cat. The cat that I love more than anything. Even cake. Even Santa.
Fiona is awesome and came to us that way from Toronto Animal Services. She was about a year old and was a stray. While I was "Ooooo-ing" and "Ahhhh-ing" over the fluffy beauties, I failed to notice the tabby/tortie that was desperately trying to get my attention.
Brian said "You need to look at this one".
"But she's not fluffy and grey", I whined.
"Remember the last time you picked a pet based on how it looked"
"Right", I responded. And so the cat that worked the hardest got to go home with us that day.
Fiona fit right in immediately. No weirdness, no soiling the furniture (that came later, but only when she was really mad at Brian). She liked to be with her people and to play. The laser pointer was a huge hit, as well as some bouncy balls that she'd chase down the stairs and return to us.
Almost every night, she brings a gift to us in the bedroom, be it a pen, a candy wrapper or a hair elastic. She's so generous.
But now I've spoiled her so rotten that I worry she's beyond redemption.
At bed time Fiona will wait until I'm tucked in to bed and then start meowing. She wants me to come downstairs and play hair elastic hockey with her.
I'm tired, but dammit, she's calling to me!
I hear this:
Brian hears this:
This is hair elastic hockey. Note how her pupils dilate at about 1:05, if you make it that long. I know it's not interesting to anyone but me. But the internet is my bitch and I will make it watch my cat play games for as long as I see fit.
She has developed this habit of wanting me to watch her eat. She'll circle around my legs til I go down to the furnace room where her food is and I have to pet her while she eats. She purrs like mad and looks up at me like I am the Best. Thing. Ever.
She drinks her water from a glass on the kitchen counter. That's right. No one will ever want to come to my house for dinner ever again.
|Portrait of Water. And Fiona.|
While I'm on the treadmill she will sit with her back to me. As soon as I am done she hops up on the treadmill, flops on her back and demands to have her belly rubbed. Then she'll lick the sweat off my shins. I wonder if this would be poisonous to her.
Her favourite place to have her evening snack is on an unfinished needlepoint of the Dowager Countess from Downton Abbey.