My Husband the Kitten-Hating Ogre Genius

My older daughter wants a kitten. She doesn't just want a kitten, she needs one from the depths of her tiny little growing-up-too-fast soul. Please, she begs. Please can I have a kitten? I’ll take care of it and clean its litter box and feed it and you won’t even know it’s here!

This is compelling logic, I will admit, save for one tiny detail: We already have a cat. And she doesn’t feed it or clean its litter box or do much of anything except ignore it, which makes only the final point valid: Most of the time, we don’t even know it’s here.

But Watson’s boring, she says. And not cute like a kitten.

But kittens become cats, I explain, it’s an inevitable and rapid transition. Much like babies become children and lovers become husbands. Or, to be at least superficially gender-neutral about it, newlyweds become spouses. And pretty soon you’re not so thrilled about feeding them and wonder why they can’t clean their own damned litter boxes. But I digress, and I sound a lot like my mother, whose pet name for my father has been - for as long as I can remember – Goddammit Andy.

Then she hit upon a plan: Can I ask Santa for one? She pleaded. Because then I’ll at least have a chance of getting one…

Oh, the chink in my armor. My kids are growing up too fast for my taste. I know this role: Mom of small children. I am finally achieving some modicum of ability in this role, and right about the time I finally started to love it, it is passing me by. My older daughter is so, so grown up. This will probably be the last year that my husband and I get away with our feeble attempts at answering questions like Why doesn’t Santa bring toys to the kids on the angel tree? And How exactly, Mom, does he get in the house if we don’t have a chimney? And Why does Santa use the same red ink that you do?

It is, in short, her last official Christmas as a child. And to celebrate, I am willing to do damn near anything, including suffer another cat unto me.

So I typed my husband a desperate email: The ONE THING Andi really wants for Christmas is a kitten. I don't want a cat in this house any more than you do, but I also don't want to crush her precious little heart on what may be the last un-jaded Christmas she has. What can we do?????

He replied: Wait fifteen minutes until she changes her mind. Remember, kittens turn into cats. Love you.

By which he meant: “….and pliant young girlfriends turn into demanding old wives.”

I countered: You have the wrong child. Our younger daughter would change her mind in 15 minutes. This is our older one, who still remembers her own birth.

He asked: We have two daughters?

I replied: You know, Watson is 13....

He answered: Yes, and you said yourself you never want another cat. I am holding you to that.

I responded: Yes, but if this is the one thing she wants more than anything else, I am willing to reconsider.

And he said: I AM NOT.

And then I burst into flames. Well, I typed, Thank you very much for keeping an open mind. DELETE. I never even really wanted a cat but now that you’re being an ass about it I do. DELETE. You suck. SEN…DELETE.

I went out for a walk. I took deep cleansing breaths. I called my mother, who said deeply disturbing things like You sound just like me and I know exactly how you feel.

I returned to my email. I did my best Steven Covey: Is there some way we could work toward a win-win instead of a win-lose?

He replied:

litter box training
cleaning the litter box
vet bills
hair balls
scratching up furniture
retaliatory existing cat
waking up in the middle of the night to go out
waking up in the middle of the night to come in
waking up in the middle of the night to go back out
fleas
shedding

It looks like a lose-lose to me.

I typed: Breaking your daughter's heart and leaving your wife to deal with it... ...PRICELESS.

SEND.

And I suspect, in some small way, that may just have started to work its way into his piggish head, because the next day I heard him having a heartfelt discussion with the correct daughter about kittens and their lack of suitability as a Christmas present. She played her hand for all it was worth. Eventually, he offered a compromise:

What if we make Watson YOUR cat? So you can feed her and change her litter box and pet her and let her in and out.

She jumped at it, but then paused to clarify exactly what was on the table:

Soooooooo, she asked, Do I have to let my little sister pet her?

Yes.

She shook her head adamantly. Nothing doing.

But a few days later, she had come around. And Watson is now officially her cat. So dinner last night looked like this:

Dad: Let your cat out.
Daughter: Yippee! MY cat!
Dad: Pass the potatoes. And let your cat back in.
Daughter: She’s silly! She just went out and now she wants back in!
Dad: Yep, cats are like that. Eat your coleslaw.
Me: That’s celeriac remoulade.
Dad: Whatever. Oops, looks like the cat wants back out!
Daughter: Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. I mean, ha ha. My cat wants out. (Trudges over to the door.)
Dad: Back in!
Daughter: Aurgh! She just wanted back out and now she wants back in and it’s Sissy’s turn to do it!
Me: Priceless.