Here, Kitty

We finally went shopping for a pet. This was pretty amazing for us since Husband and I have Post Traumatic Pet Syndrome. When either of us even think about getting a pet, the first thing on our minds is not my chronic asthma, it's not the kids' springtime allergies and wondering if they'd be allergic to a pet too, and it's not being tied down to an animal just when our lives are getting easier. Instead this is on our minds: our former beloved cat dying an agonizing death from kidney disease when Bar Mitzvahzilla was just a baby.

Since Bar Mitzvahzilla was a dangerously tiny preemie who took ten weeks to come home from the hospital, we certainly had our hands full when he came home in October, 1995. There was an apnea monitor for the baby, an IV for the cat. An oxygen tank for the baby, injections for the cat. Doctor visits for the baby, veterinarian visits for the cat. Carrier for the baby, carrier for the cat.

Unlike the baby, who thrived, busting out of those little unisex preemie outfits like Superman, the cat did not, despite our best efforts to keep her alive. Finally, we had to let her go. We called the mobile vet, laid her down in Husband's arms and the vet gave her the shot to put her to sleep.

So when we see a cute little kitty, we don't just see the kitty. We see the grown up cat, the responsibility, we see the vet visits, and, unfortunately, we see the end. We're not a exactly a barrel of monkeys when it comes to cat shopping.

Based on our checkered past, when we finally went to the Humane Society last Friday to check out the cats, there wasn't much chance of us leaving with one. First there were the four of us and our individual expectations of a cat, then there was the lurking ghost of our dead cat. There was also Husband's list of required attributes for a new cat, which basically meant that the kitty would have to be a reincarnation of our old cat.

Ultimately, none of this came into play. We walked in, we picked out a cat to see. The kids pet the cat, both of them lifting their hands in horror at the cat hair clinging to them and swirling in the air around their heads. Then they began sneezing: six times, seven times. Then they put their cat hair-covered hands to their mouths to cover their sneezes. More sneezes.

We ran for our lives.

Fish Tales

My kids want a pet. They'd like a dog but they know that's out of the question. Husband and I are not dog people, we're cat people. Okay fine, they want a cat.

This longing for a pet kind of ebbs and flows around here. My kids want one so badly for a while that they can't think of anything else. They argue over the fictional pet's name. They bring up convincing arguments, like how can we raise them their whole life without a pet? So there's this little frenzy and then, slowly, by Husband and I hemming and hawwing and procrastinating and mentioning my asthma and allergies and how Bar Mitzvahzilla's head nearly explodes every Spring with the blooming flowers, the topic winds down.

One time the excitement was so great that the kids and I went to Petsmart, looking for a pet that would be easy to care for, like a turtle. I felt we could handle a turtle. We'd had them when I was a kid in Skokie, tiny turtles that lived on a little plastic tray on our kitchen counter with a ramp winding up the middle of it to the grand surprise: a tiny plastic palm tree.

Each of our turtles got a lot of attention. First of all, there were seven sisters watching it and feeding it at all times of the day and night. Second of all, we had a dog who thought it was a chew toy, and a cat who thought it was prey. My mother was willing to put up with this to a point, but the pragmatic Holocaust Survivor in her won out every time one of these turtles would stop moving. She'd throw them out. One time one of these tiny turtles stopped moving and she didn't notice. We held an elaborate funeral.

There weren't going to be any turtles for my kids. I was quickly informed by an employee at Petsmart that you can't get those tiny turtles anymore. There are apparently a lot of laws around the whole turtle-owning issue now, so the kids and I ended up wandering aimlessly through the store, until we came upon the Beta.

I'll skip over the part of the story about how we actually had to go through about 4 fish till we found one that would live for more than a week. But when we found her - Kay the Beta fish - we finally had a pet. She was just the right kind of pet for us. No litter boxes, no walking her with a pooper scooper in hand. No highly-charged emotional relationship. The fish wouldn't be jumping around waiting to be taken for a run right after we'd come home, barking, or begging for food at the table. No. She was a fish - trapped in her bowl.

But one day after Kay hadn't been eating well for a long, long time, my husband showed up in our room while I was getting ready in the morning. He had a funny look on his face.

I said, "What's the matter?"

"It's Kay," he said.

"Is she okay?"

And he said, "I've got her in my pocket."

Oh.

Honestly, even a fish was a big job for us. Feeding her, cleaning her bowl, getting my best friend to babysit her when we went on vacation, worrying about her - we just aren't sure about going through all that again. And the kids aren't settling this time: they want a pet mammal this time, one that doesn't live in water.

And my husband and I? We're just waiting for the frenzy to die down.