Happy Birthday, You Potatoes with Eyes

A simple fact of life: when you get pets, you get weird. Sometimes, you get sharing-licks-of-candy weird, or dress-the-dog-in-a-sailor-suit weird, or talk-in-a-specific-voice-to-denote-you're-speaking-on-behalf-of-your-animal weird. Often, it's all those variations of weird and more.

It's no surprise, then, that Kelsey and I threw a party for our puppies, Billie and Binx, on their first birthday last Sunday, complete with hand-decorated doggy cookies.

They are obviously having a wonderful time and Binx is definitely not crying in my arms.

Look, I never expected to be this kind of pet owner. I love animals, of course. Anyone who knew me growing up can attest to that. But the birthday-cookie-decorating, the puppy-sized "I heart my mummy" Halloween shirts, the way we pack our girls a "diaper bag" for every outing? Yup, we're in deep.

Kelsey and I aren't the only ones guilty of babying our two chihuahua-maltese mixes (malchis, if you're in the know). It all started with Kelsey's mother, Laura. That's right, folks, I'm blaming the mother-in-law, who shares her birthday with the dogs, and for whom I did NOT make birthday cookies. 

Billie and Binx are the only two pups from a litter belonging to Laura's dogs. Around the time of their birth, Kelsey and I had been not-too-seriously looking at shelter pups. In true lesbian fashion, we had our eyes on a sweet pitbull girl named Tulip (if you're out there, Tulip, we still love you and hope you're doing well). But two pups in the hand are worth one in the pound, right? So we agreed we'd take the puppies once they'd been weaned.

And so began the messages, sent on behalf of the puppies to their "parents." Little "good morning, Mommies!" texts with pictures of the hairy potatoes cupped in Laura's hands, that kind of thing. We took it one step further and essentially did a pregnancy-reveal photo shoot with our dogs-to-be's tiny, girlish collars.   

The gay agenda.

My parents aren't absolved either. I've caught both Mom and Dad holding Binx to their shoulders like an infant, bobbing in that soothing, parental way, and stroking her mess of wiry fur. A couple weekends back, my parents, our newly-wed friends Luke and Alé, Kelsey, and I were hanging out at the lake, having a gay old time. We four millennials lounged on the docked deckboat, not quite ready for the chill of the early summer water. On the deck of the cabin up the hill from us, my mother paced with Binxie cradled in her arms.

"She needs grandbabies," Alé observed.

Grandbabies are going to have to wait. In fact, I wonder if the degree of our dog-doting is related to how long we're going to wait for actual babies. When I say "we," I'm also sweeping in the rest of our age bracket, who have a lower birthrate than any previous generation. 

The thing is, I can't see financial stability or affordable healthcare in my future. A huge chunk of my peers are staring toward the same grim horizon of high debt, low wages, and a hostile political climate. Young people who can naturally have children could incur financial ruin with a surprise pregnancy. Queer couples and folks facing fertility-related obstacles can't afford to try for kids even if they could maybe afford to raise them. 

Besides that, I wonder if it's even ethical to bring other human beings onto a planet that's hurtling toward an environmental meltdown. 

But I could be wrong. Maybe it's too early to assume we'll never afford a family. Maybe things on the world stage will turn back around. Before I get too gloom-and-doomy, I have to remind myself that Kelsey and I are just getting started. Even if finances and biology weren't considerations, I don't think we're emotionally prepared for actual baby-rearing. Right now, we have the freedom to work on our own creative projects, to wander off on weekend adventures without weeks of preparation, and to simply waste time on the couch playing video games. 

This is a special window of time in our lives, and my professional-grade fretting about the future isn't doing us any good. I hope someday we'll have the resources, health, and all-around stability for the mostly hairless kind of kiddo, but for now, I'm satisfied with coddling our doggos. 

Happy birthday to the ambulatory cheese curds.

(Jasper the Cat Is) Bad At Puppies

I was seven when my brother was born. I don’t remember much about his birthday except that I was bitter and skeptical about the prospect of having another human around, especially one that was garnering so much attention and praise before he was even out of the womb. My primary memory of that day is of my grandparents easing the blow to my only child status by buying me a remote control car.

RadioShack’s 1998 Flamethrower. The stuff of legends.

I’d been pining for a remote control car since my own birth. I remember the rubbery smell of the tires, the whirs and clicks of the car’s tiny machinations. What a thrill, zipping it around my grandparents’ house, smashing it into ankles! I was pretty sure I didn’t have my parents’ love anymore, but hey, I had a small, battery-devouring racer that was almost as fast as someone taking a brisk walk.

Unfortunately, I don’t think my cat would accept a remote control car as a peace offering in response to the two little sisters we’ve just dumped on her.

Jasper the cat is a sweet, pudgy little lady who followed me when I was walking home, tipsy and singing, from a friend’s place in college. She’s shaped like a gourd and has some rough RBF, even for a cat. She has a speech impediment (I’m not even making this up. Cats can have speech impediments. Jasper doesn’t meow. She squeaks.). She has never scratched or bitten anyone, even when we cradle her like a baby and jiggle her tubby, pink belly. She’s a wonderful cat, but her Only Child Syndrome is out of control.

So when Jasper met Billie and Binx, our two canine additions to the family, she was displeased. We held up the sleepy puppies for her to see, and she gasped and hissed in Cade’s arms. Which we expected, given that she was afraid of a kitten who visited her once in Cade’s previous apartment. Then we put the pups in their own little room where Jasper could avoid them if she wanted, which she did want.

In the few days since we’ve acquired little Billie and littler Binx, Jasper has been wrestling with her sense of betrayal by holing herself up in Cade’s room and hissing at random items that she suspects have something to do with her baby sisters. Luckily, she’s consolable, and will rub on us and purr when we visit her in her sanctuary, and has even come out of hiding to sprawl across my keyboard in the study (until she hears a puppy growl in the next room, and she remembers that she’s supposed to be pouting). Sometimes, she’ll gently hiss at my hand before purring and head-butting it, just so I know that she’s still pissed, but not so pissed that she’d turn down a massage.

Photo taken seconds after the puppies yipped in the adjacent room. Not pictured: Jasper vanishing from the room, leaving behind a cat-shaped cloud.

Despite the hissing, growling, squeaking, and muttering (if cats could curse, we’d have washed her mouth out with soap many times by now), Jasper still hasn’t scratched or bitten us. Hopefully, she’ll stay as gentle with the puppies, if she ever gets over the situation enough to interact with them once they’re out of their puppy room.

I think she’ll be OK. She’s already calming down and allowing more puppy-scented things to get close to her. She even let me carry Billie and Binx past Cade’s room while she watched, unblinking. Just a little stink-eye, no hissing or hiding. When I put the puppies back in their kennels, she even let me rub her belly with my Chihuahua-tainted hand. She’ll get there eventually.

As for the puppies? They're oblivious to big sis. Billie talks a big game, growling and pouncing on the smaller Binx, but she's a wuss with car rides or dark rooms. She's super into person-climbing and will not rest until she's on your shoulder. Binx is more relaxed, but has been playing an intense game of The Floor Is Lava since she arrived at our house, and will only touch the hardwood after several minutes of growling debate. She likes to snuggle on laps to sleep, and her gentle kisses would be much sweeter if I didn't know that she's a pro at eating her own, um, "foul misdeeds." 

Billie is the one spreading her legs and appearing to hold in a fart like a proper lady, and Binx is the one who looks like she belongs to Bernie Sanders.

They're puppies. Stinky, rowdy, precious fur-potatoes. And Jasper isn't the only one who needs to adjust to them. 

Now then, I'd better jet. It's been too quiet for too long...