Perhaps It's A Good Thing I Don't Have Kids

I remember once, on “Frasier” before Niles had a kid they told him to practice with a sack of flour first, to see how he’d do. He left the sack everywhere, it ripped, spilled and was pretty emaciated by the end of the test. So maybe the flour was an indication that he shouldn’t be a dad.

And if my kittens are any indication of my abilities as a parent of little humans, then it’s probably good I don’t have any.

First, allowed to name the first one, I dubbed the little fellow, “Prince Stanley Fuzzbucket III.” Yes, I know there were no other Fuzzbuckets before him but it added a bit of sophistication to this little scratchy street-born baby.

So issue number one: If given the chance to name my own child, you can bet little Farnsworth Dingus would get his ass kicked up and down the schoolyard.

The next was our second kitten. A lovely girl named Isabelle. Until three weeks later, when the vet informed us that Isabelle was not a girl. Now, many months later, little Isaboy delights us with his fanciful ways.

So issue number two: If you thought my first child would get his ass kicked, my second child, “It’s Pat” would definitely have to take boxing lessons to make it through our public school system.

Which brings me to my next point. My male cat children are not masculine. At all. In one day, Fuzzy was running around with the rainbow gay flag in his mouth while Isaboy was playing with ponytail holders and (unused) tampons.

More ass kicking.

Next: The older one has some odd health issues and the little one isn’t the sharpest bulb in the shed. Fuzzy, again, off the street, scratched, had a cold, no eyebrows and gum problems – all before age 1. Now he may have asthma, and the gum problem? I was told he might have been exposed to herpes, possibly through his mother. HERPES???? Apparently Fuzzy is the son of the town whore (by his BIOLOGICAL mother, not me). This tainted for life, son of a harlot also doesn’t take pills very well. He spits them up, producing a Santa Claus beard of drool- that disgusts me and I have to sop him up with a paper towel as I do this. Yech.

And as the poster boy of Health Reform is doing all this, my little genius, Isaboy watches a blank TV set. I mean it’s off. And he gets on top of it, looks down and stares at nothing. He also chases his tail. Over and over again. Each time, I think he is sure that he’s going to capture that odd foreign object. Definitely. Oh, but just when I think Fuzzy is the smart one, we changed to a hypoallergenic litter for Fuzzy’s possible asthma, and he started eating it. Even Baby Einstein knew what it was, pissed on it and yet Fuzzy still went back for seconds.

So in summation: It’s a good thing I didn’t birth humans, because other cats don’t see these two prizes and can’t kick their little furry tushies all over the schoolyard. But if they’d been human children, these little asthmatic, transgendered, addle-brained kids with odd names and who would eat out of the school toilets- would never have a chance.

But maybe it wouldn’t be like that. Maybe it’s nature, not nurture.

I’d just have to make sure I didn’t get my kids off Craig’s List.