Cat's in the Cradle (Stroller, Too)

Not long after Boss was born, I told a friend I was taking the baby to the vet. “Pediatrician” wasn't a regular part of my vocabulary yet; I was used to cats--which had been a part of my life for nearly 40 years--not kids.

But babies and pets have lots in common. They roam on all fours, need us for food, and sleep a lot. Sure, they may chew on furniture behind our backs, pee on the floor, barf on the bed and make a lot of noise, but they're also great to cuddle with and we love them to death. They bring us chuck wagons full of joy.

Lately, I haven't had much luck with disciplinary action for Boss, and I've had a strong urge to try a pet owner's approach to better behavior. No, no, no, not shmooshing the nose in pooh or a waving a rolled-up-newspaper around; nothing like that. The squirt bottle! It's great for cats--why not kids?

I could have used the bottle several times today, actually: when Boss was picking Cheerios out of his bowl with his tongue (Squirt!), redecorating the lawn with river rocks (Squirt!), pushing Stinker over for the fifth time (Squirt! Squirt! Squirt! Squirt! Squirt!), throwing toys down the cat door into the basement (Squirt!), screaming at the cat (Squirt!), chasing the neighbor's cat under the deck (Squirt!), refusing a diaper change (Squirt!), and clearing the coffee table with his notorious arm swipe (Squirrrrrrrt!). The water bill may spike, but I bet it would work. I could even hang the container around my neck like a hostess wearing a wine glass on a black band. You're right, it IS ridiculous, but I've witnessed such a contraption.

Another absurd item that appealed to me once: a cat stroller. During my infertility woes when baby carriages made me weep, I vowed I'd get a pussum pram, complete with a zipped-in screen to prevent untimely escapes into traffic. I'd put my hair in a ponytail, get some elastic-wasted jeans, darken the circles under my eyes and strut around the neighborhood with … yeah, my cat. Maybe I could even get a bonnet on him, if I didn't mind getting my eyes scratched out in the process.

I guess if I have a point with all this, it's that people love their pets like children, and some love their children like pets (I mean this in a good way). That's not to say pets and peeps are equal--I wouldn't give my kids a litter box, now c'mon!--but the love comes from the same place.

It's also worth noting that Stinker's name started out as Stinker Dog; that I refer to his hands as paws; that our Alpha Cat, Harriett, stalked and bit me when she thought I was an incompetent mom with a crying babe in my arms; and that Boss's first word was--I kid you not--“meow.”