Just for the record, Eli is not my “son.” He is not my “fur baby,” and I am not his “mother.” No, Virginia, I am not a “pet parent.”
That is not to say I don’t love him. Of course I do. That I love him enough to take a bullet for him is well documented in this forum. That I would also beat the living hell out of anyone who even thought about harming one fur on his incredibly adorable little head should also go without saying.
That’s because Eli is a cat. Sure, he is my constant companion, my best friend and my therapist, all wrapped up into one really cute bundle of fur. And yes, he is definitely part of the family. As such, he counts on me and my mother (his people) to provide food, water, a clean litter box, medical care (although he hates the vet), shelter and protection, among other things.
I can’t speak for my mother, but personally I am happy to oblige.
The joys of cleaning up cat puke
Sometimes. No. Make that most of the time. To be brutally honest, there is one aspect of being Eli’s No. 1 person that I really don’t enjoy. I mean, I know he needs one, but I really don’t appreciate that he appointed me sanitation chief. In this capacity, I am not only responsible for cleaning out and changing the litter in his boxes, but I am also solely responsible for cleaning up after him whenever he pukes.
This usually happens when he’s been out on the deck, bingeing on the grass in the containers we leave out for him. And since we have a lot of hardwood floors in our house, there are times when the clean up is relatively easy. And then there are times — like Monday morning — when, for some strange reason, he decides not to puke on a hard surface.
On Monday morning, I came up to my loft/home office to find that my dear, sweet, lovable, adorable cat, whom I love more than life, had puked all over one end of an extremely expensive futon. Needless to say, I was not happy about it.
At least kids learn to clean up after themselves
After spending at least half an hour gathering supplies, cleaning and scrubbing, I finally got rid of the mess. And I found myself thinking that maybe — just maybe — there are some similarities between taking care of a cat and taking care of a child.
“I challenge anyone to tell me that taking care of a cat isn’t like taking care of a little kid,” I told my mother. “I seem to spend a lot of time cleaning up poop and vomit.”
“Yes, she said. But at least children evolve. Animals stay fairly constant.”
She’s got a point. I mean, Eli is brilliant. But unless he suddenly, miraculously sprouts opposable thumbs, learns to walk on his hind legs and gains even more self-awareness, he won’t be cleaning up after himself anytime soon.
But that’s OK. I love him anyway.