I used to be a good cat owner. I rescued them from the street and from shelters, gave them tins of tuna, petted them frequently, let them sleep on the bed.
I was sure that I would still be a good cat owner after the babies got here.
I think I was wrong.
When you’re carrying a sleeping baby up the stairs, it’s hard to be gracious toward the cat occupying the entire third-from-the-top step. Who can resist a kitty sweetly poking you in the arm with his paw, asking to be petted? I can, apparently, when that kitty is poking me while both babies are nursing. When two babies are wet and crying, I don’t want to listen to two cats whining to be fed RIGHTNOWRIGHTNOWRIGHTNOW.
And when the cats bring home fleas – despite a recent application of Frontline – and then generously scatter them over the couch, lo, my patience is sorely strained.
And when they pee ON MY PURSE in retribution for the reapplication of the flea treatment, my wrath, it is great.
And when I am so distracted by the fleas and the pee that I leave for work without the bottles I need for pumping, well, I think you can imagine how charitable I’m feeling toward kitties right now.
I love my cats. I don’t want to give them up. And I know no one will take two middle-aged cats anyway; at least, no one who wouldn’t subsequently stick a needle in them, which is obviously not something I would allow to happen. But I would like a hole to climb into now, please. Preferably one without fleas, or cats.