Everyone is bummed that Oreo has gone to heaven, as
he was tolerable as far as cats go. Kid #3, however, being Oreo’s best
buddy in the world sobbed and was devastated. (For the sake of not having to listen
to the 16 year yell at me for the next 24 hours, and to keep his image in tact – I will note - he was 11
when this took place)
Here is where a mistake may have been made. I
tell #3 we can get another cat. (Oh come on - they were best friends
and you know #3 never cries). I believe I have the upper hand by saying, firmly, “No Kitten, they just trash the furniture; we can get an older cat”.
Friday evening we go to Pet Smart. There has
to be like 4 million youthfully challenged, just wanna lie in the sun, I’ll let
you pet me - but never poop in your plant- cats; that need homes right??
The very happy volunteer, gushes that he would love to help us, but, we have to
fill out an application, then wait to see if we are approved. OK … so I
am trying to keep some flea carrying, clawed shedding machine, that doesn’t
care if I live or die, from the electric chair, and they need to decide if I am
approved?? The way I see it is, as long as I don’t use Kitty for science
experiments, they should be pretty darn happy I’m taking a cat off their
hands.
I fill out the application mumbling quietly to
myself. I get to the line that says social security and driver’s license
number. OK THAT’S IT!?!?!?! There is NO way you can judge my
ability to take care of some middle aged cat by my tax records, or the number
of parking tickets I may have. I tell Mr. Happy, that I have no intention
of giving out this information. He
assures me this is not a problem and takes the opportunity to share with me,
far too many details of his life in the mortgage industry. After the CIA
grilling buy the Cat police is complete, we hand in the application, and wait
to hear if we are approved.
As we leave we walk by the birds. #3 says
“can we can we can we?” I do my best Oh
darn it to pieces impression, and say “I am sure you need to fill out an
application for a bird too, honey”. “Can I just ask, can I can I can I?” From high on my horse I nod, smile and say “ok go ask”. #3 finds the 16 year old pimply face bird
helper and asks “excuse me what do I have to do to get a bird?” Sir
Pimpleface, with all the poise and grace a teenage boy can muster, says “Uh … which
one you want.”
BAD WORD, BAD WORD, VERY BAD WORD, BAD WORD, & BAD WORD
Oh how badly a plan can backfire
sometimes.
So, #3, Sir Pimpleface, and I, squeeze into the
tiny little area inside of the bird cages. “How about the small little
blue parakeet” I whisper, trying to catch my breath, and still the throbbing
pain in my head. Sir Pimpleface, who should be shot, says “don’t you want
a bird that talks?” (remind me to have the school bully beat this kid
up). Well OF COURSE #3 wants a bird that can talk and sit on his
shoulder. “But …the little blue parakeet is so cute… and…so um birdlike
sitting on that …bird perch there – what about him?” I plead.
Sir Pimpleface gets the $$$ bird out of the
cage. (Priced blanked out to protect the holy matrimonially union).
The million dollar bird obviously knows when to perform, and cutely steps onto
Carson’s finger, then cocks her adorable little bird brained head. “But
that parakeet there is so BLUE” I stammer, as Sir Pimpleface spouts all the
fantastic things that THIS bird will do. (He neglects to mention how the
bird will hate everything and bite the living crap out of anything that comes
near it until it adjusts to family life)
As Carson and Sir Pimpleface extol the virtues of
this bird and dance with delight, I implore a final time “#3 …are you sure
you don’t want the cute little blue parakeet …look ~ he looks so friendly …just
sitting there…. ignoring you … and pooping on that stick ~ what about him?” #3, now unwaveringly in love with the creature he’s know for all of 4
minutes says “Can we mom please …just get this one?”
As the oxygen level in the inner bowels of the bird
sanctuary has been depleted, I’m sure I’m dying of Bird flu, and that stupid Parakeet keeps eyeballing me, I say yes. But of course, the million dollar bird needs
also need food, and treats, and a cage, and toys – but not just one toy. Noooooo
Sir Pimpleface insists Cockatiels get bored and need their toys changed
frequently. (Oh one can only image the sorrows of having a bored
cockatiel). So after spending and extremely private amount of money that
shall never be spoken of again, on …a …. Bird, we leave Pet Smart.
So now to inform Mr-Till-Death-Do-Us-Part, who was SURE we did not need a replacement cat,
that I have spent a small fortune on a replacement bird instead. On the drive home I call him. “Hi
Honey! I love you soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo much
!!!
Believe it or not …. There is a part 3 to this story … tune
in tomorrow
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