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Sample
Chapter one
Fixing Cats
As
you may already be aware, when you adopt a pet from any of the
various animal shelter organizations, one of the commitments you
must make is to have the pet spayed or neutered when it is the
appropriate time.
We had adopted two kittens the previous
summer from our local humane society and the time had come for them
to fulfill their part of the agreement.
Early one morning I was readying the now
overweight and overgrown cats for their appointment. By “readying“ I
of course mean stuffing them against their will into a cardboard
box.
”Relax boys, I promise this is not the
worst part of your day,” doing my best to offer them a gentle word
of compassion, masked with a slight smirk.
I was running a little late as the
unwillingness of the participants in the “get in the box” game had
required me to be a little more forceful and tape it shut.
If you have ever lived in a home with
children, you will know that finding tape of any form in your house
when you need it, is about as likely as finding gold nuggets in the
litter box.
You will then understand that the impromptu
box fastener excursion which I was forced to undertake, yielded to
me only Christmas ribbons and a chance to use my creativity.
As long as the job done, its good enough
for me.
Perhaps I may be a half an hour late, not too bad. I’m sure the vet
will understand and probably even appreciate my efforts as I present
him with the festively decorated jack in the box like surprise.
Complete with leaping howling cats and streamers to celebrate his
next neutering. I love to spread good cheer.
It struck me as incredibly comical that the
only container I could find large enough to squeeze the cats inside,
had come from a case of diapers. A smiling diaper clad baby on the
outside of a bulging cardboard box wrapped up with colored ribbons,
containing angry meowing cats.
Hilarious.
I am not sure if it was the sound of mom
laughing hysterically while stuffing cats into a box that made the
children concerned, but they felt the need to drop what they were
doing and come to check up on me.
Which of course is when the inevitable
question that I was trying to avoid came.
“Mom, what are you doing to my cats?” Smallest one says, appearing
rather suspicious of my actions.
Now, I’ll have you know that I do subscribe to, and completely agree
with the theory that you should answer all questions truthfully when
a child asks, but I was hoping this one wouldn’t have to go the
whole way. I was trying to sneak quietly out the door without any of
them noticing, allowing the explanation of the cats and their
impending doom to fall under dads responsibility, but luck doesn’t
always shine on me.
I’m still a little squeamish regarding the
reproduction process myself, the mere mention of the technical terms
and names turns me into a blushing idiot. Leaving me to question if
I my anxious bumbling through an explanation of the cats “bits”
removal process would help or more likely, potentially damage the
child for life.
Unprepared and brimming with avoidance, I
try for the evasive maneuver.
“They are just going to the vets,
honey,“….hoping that was good enough.
It wasn’t.
“Why mom? are they sick?” he questions,
blinking.
“No honey, they are just fine.”
“Then why are they going to the vets?” he
retorts, staring me down in a brown eyed interrogation.
Damn you captain logic, how does a four
year old have such a concept of reason?
“They are just going to have a little……
operation.” I tried whispering the key word in an effort to not
alert the others hovering nearby.
“O P E R A T I O N,” smallest was yelling
and spinning in circles for maximum noise distribution.
”The cats are having an OPERATION!”
squawking repeatedly at full volume.
“Are they going to die?” he is now howling
in anguish.
“OPERATION!!!” yelling and jumping up and
down for each syllable.
“What’s…. going… to…. happen…… to them?”
teary eyed, crumpled and fallen to the floor in an Oscar worthy
dramatic performance.
Unfortunately for me, the town crier had
unleashed a key word that would generate four billion unavoidable
questions from the surrounding villagers.
I am never getting out of here.
“They are just going to get fixed.” I try
to throw out nonchalantly, hoping to create a diversion. Bomb
dropped, waiting for the response.
My oldest boy understands the essence of
this discussion and bolts to the safety of the TV room. He has
suffered through moms painfully embarrassing explanation of this
process before and wasn’t setting himself up for that level of
torture again.
“Honey, I promise it’s okay. The cats are
just at an age where they need a little tiny operation so they don’t
have babies. It is called getting fixed. ”
Throwing the key word “fixed” out there
again hoping to create happy images.
A word that usually relates to tools and
renovation projects which provide great happiness in this house.
I bit my lip and hoped I had baffled them.
”Cats can make babies?” smallest one
speaks, looking at me with an expression like the little girl
catching the Grinch stealing Christmas.
“No honey, cat babies…… kittens.”
He looks at me even more confused,
wondering aloud why anyone in their right mind would want to put a
stop to having potential access to the wonder that would be your
very own kitten making machine.
“Well Jasper and Smokey don’t want any
babies….”
“Because they are not…married,” through a
bitten lip.
I don’t know, it was something my mom would
have said.
Reaching for the door quickly in an effort
to make my escape. I hear him consulting his brother seeking truth
and better answers than I was giving, asking what this operation
really involved.
It was the big brothers response that made me realize this issue
needed to be dealt with properly. Whether I wanted to or not.
“Well Matt,” says our all knowing 7 year
old.
“The vets are going to cut off the cats
nuts….. and their wieners.”
”Well how are they going to pee?” he
retorts after a quick processing through his plumbing knowledge.
”The cats are going to explode!…MOM!!..
don’t go!!!” squeals and howls of terror fueled by visions of cats
detonating about the house.
“Alright, honey its not really a bad thing.
They get to keep their wiener. Just the rest of the bits get….
Fixed. So the cats wont go out looking for a girlfriend, and leave
us, wanting to start their own family.” looking to the sky pleading,
please tell me that’s good enough.
Good enough for the cat issue, but every
question in this house ends with more questions.
“I heard you say that daddy was fixed. Did
you do this to him too?” smallest questions looking a little
intrigued, and a little frightened.
I notice a glimmer of what appears to be
growing concern cross their faces. As the realization goes through
their minds that, mom seems to be completely in charge of making all
decisions involving who, gets to keep what, in this house.
“All but the stuffing him in a cardboard
box part, darling,“ with a hint of a smirk.
Nobody in my house has treated me quite the
same after this day.
The End
© 2006 Lisa McCauley, all rights
reserved.
Sample Chapter two
Farting
As a girl, my induction into my self created, all male world has
certainly been a learning experience, with the curve both sharp and
difficult. The language barrier alone has posed many difficulties.
For instance farting, thought of as an inadvertent release of gas to
the novice ear, {female}. Once educated, an understanding of the
complexities that this event represents, reveals an entire language
heard and understood only by males and dogs {possibly the same
creature?} next chapter.
This is the force that drives them all.
Their language and code of understanding is all about emitting
smells and strange noises. The fart says; this space is mine do not
dare come closer.
Since childhood, I had always been taught
that a fart was something to be very ashamed of. The most
embarrassing thing that could possibly happen would be an
inadvertent release of gas in the company of others. Intestinal gas
is to be released in a controlled private environment only. I
believed this, and held steadfast to the rules regarding fart
control. How little did I know about reality.
As a child the boys around me; my brothers,
and as an adult my own boys, all seemed to revel in the joy of a
noisy noxious competition between friends, or better, enemies. I
didn’t understand. I simply was unable to get my brain to bend
around the fact that this is the most disgusting and uncivilized act
to do in front of other people.
Until I gave it a try.
One night, while relaxing with my boys,
watching some mindless show on TV, a rather mundane typical evening
was unfolding before us. The usual arguments between siblings were
circulating in the background. Senseless testosterone fueled banter
that I know will only escalate until someone gets hurt. That is
the predictable time honored path. Until somebody casts out the
threat; the threat to trump all other things said or done
previously.
“I’ll fart,” the middle child announces
triumphantly. Changing the game completely. The underdog of this
episode now fighting for the top.
Oh dear god, that simple statement takes
the situation to an all new level.
This conflict has now become dreadfully serious. The room grows as
quiet as a championship chess game. With the same level of silent
tension as the impending possibility hangs in the air. All parties
involved, including me are silently attentive as we fear its
execution.
Watching from the sidelines, this same game
playing out for the hundredth time. Knowing fully that the end
result would be a large fight between the three wild animals that
make up my circus. A gigantic crashing, flailing brawl. Resulting
in someone bleeding, someone crying, and most disturbing, something
of mine getting broken. I began fearing the great deal of my time
and effort it would take to repair both the emotional damage to the
children and the physical damage that goes alongside, to my house. I
knew I had to do something drastic.
Yelling like a mom was not going to diffuse
this evening’s situation. This little guy was tunnel vision mad.
And he was determined to win this time, whatever the consequences.
I searched the memory bank for something
bold. It was that moment I chose to take hold of everything I have
ever been taught about ladylike behavior and put it behind
me. Closing my eyes, to concentrate and summon more power. I
forced out the most obnoxious fart that a small lady could possibly
create. The cold silence broken with a noise rumbling and
reverberating throughout the room as a distant ominous thunder. I am
certain that the windows shook and began to melt.
Mortified with my actions, yet a little
exhilarated, I held my breath and waited for a reaction. The
hibiscus plant in the corner gave up and fell over. I could hear the
cat gagging under the couch {sorry buddy, didn’t know you were
there}.
Where was the crowd going to go with this
one?
Choking amid the green toxic fog, three
sets of brown eyes turned to me.
Speechless and blinking in disbelief.
“Now that is enough of this ridiculous
behavior. Go to your rooms,” speaking softly as I had their
complete attention. All obediently ran for the refuge and fresh air
of their bedrooms. A great battle had been waged here, and captain
resourceful had obviously won the war.
I had discovered the secret key to how they
determine who is leader of their pack. Best fart wins the respect
and admiration of all. Another lesson in parenting, that couldn’t
be found in a book and an ace in my pocket should I need it for
future use.
Thankfully, a repeat performance has not
yet been required as the mere threat of mom’s intestinal liberation
will instantly bring fear to their faces and tears to their eyes.
I
am mom, hear me roar.
The End
© 2006 Lisa McCauley, all rights
reserved.
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