Here Kitty Kitty

So the Dibbles family has a new bird...

We all settle into the weekend, and while the kids fight…nonstop… over what to name the bird, the newest member of our family conveys her hatred, loathing, malice and general ill will to any man, woman or beast who comes near her cage.  When not refereeing the unending “name that bird” battle, I sneak away to see exactly how much slightly used Cockatiels sell for on EBay.  After the 27^th million time saying “No we are not naming the bird "Penis” I close the discussion, and name the bird Callie, although there are several other 4 letter words I would prefer to call the creature who wants nothing more than to peck, each & everyone of us to death.

Sunday afternoon we realize Callie, aka the spawn of satan, dances when the kids are playing Guitar Hero on play station.  This trick earns her a small window of time before I consider shoving her into a federal express box. 

Sunday night a dreaded call comes …. The cat police have approved our application.  I tell Kid #3, but follow up with, in my best June Cleaver voice, “oh honey, we already have a pet bird now”.  He drops it and goes back to seeing how long he can hold “Callie” without bleeding on her. 

We morph into Tuesday, and #3 wakes up with a stomach ache, as the news reports the recall of the day.  After a check of the pantry, we realize the jar of peanut butter he opened and put on his bagel last night, was one recalled due to Salmonella contamination.  I feel a little guilty for trying to poison my son with deadly peanut butter, so I keep him home from school. 

At lunchtime he brings in the mail for me.  The next thing I know he is sobbing giant tears … apparently the sympathy card the vet has sent us saying sorry Oreo died, is not comforting #3 in this time of loss. 

So I put my salmonella poisoned, best friendless, son into the car, and off we go to Pet Smart to adopt a new best friend.  (Come on, I thought he was dying from salmonella poisoning and you know he never cries).

As I trail behind the 11 year old who is racing to the cat section, I call out …."Remember no kitten”.  There are several cute older cats to choose from, and #3 takes a liking to an orange tabby named “Bonkers”.  (Picture Garfield or Morris the cat)  “Bonkers” starts his “Pick Me” performance; #3 taps on the glass, then bonkers taps on the glass, #3 puts his head against the glass, then Bonkers does the same thing.  As the angels sing in the background and a golden aura forms around #3 & Bonkers, he says “Mom, I really like Bonkers”.  The relief over finding a suitable old cat to make my 3^rd child happy is very short lived. 

The blood drains from my body and I fight for composure as I read the “small print” on the tag that’s stuck to the cage.  “Oh #3 …<gasp>… the sign says… <gasp>   
  <gulp>… Bonkers has to be adopted …. <Breathe in the good air> with that other
cat in the cage with him.  Focus switches to the hissing miserable pile of fur in the corner that I swear is giving us the paw.  Oblivious to my mental anguish, pain and suffering, #3 says “Oh boy that means we can get them both?

“LOOK AT THIS CUTE ONE” I say (ok perhaps scream), as I drag his body 2 cages down and shove him to the floor, so he can bond with a single cat who comes with no excess baggage or strings attached.  #3, not seeing anything out of the ordinary, says “eh I think I like Bonkers better”.  Not ready to admit defeat, I drag him to another cage, “LOOK AT THIS BLACK & GREY ONE …. HE REALLY LOVES YOU!!  LOOK AT HOW HE IS JUST LYING THERE…. WOW HE REALY REALLY WANTS TO COME HOME WITH US.”  #3 is unimpressed and damn if Bonkers isn’t pulling out all the “I LOVE YOU #3 STOPS”.  (Picture the cat tap dancing, singing and writing #3 a poem).  I admit defeat… what’s one more old cat thrown into the mix of 2 great Danes, 4 kids & a house full of friends.  Maybe Husband won’t even notice. 

Yes there is more .....