“Baron insists on using a diaper and won’t pee on the wee wee pad. Ridiculous!”, yeah, that’s how I’m going to start commenting the next time someone starts talking about their furry baby when I’m talking about my child. My HUMAN child, perhaps furry but still, I can’t lock in him a cage with kibbles and bits go to work, return home and not get arrested for it.
I get it, not everyone can or even wants to experience having a child. That’s fine and as someone who has struggled (a lot) with infertility, I understand how a pet can fill that void and to the people who never wanted children, I respect them more than anything for making the best choice and not reproducing. I feel that I should also include a little background about myself, I never ever talk about my children unless a question is asked. As a matter of fact, people will not know that I even have children unless a) They pull down my pants and see a c-section scar or b) I am asked if I have children. Yes, I love being a mother. Yes, I love my children, I just don’t feel that my only identity is the gig I have as a MOM.
Now back to the furry children. I am not sure if furry parents feel the need to jump into a conversation about HUMANS because they want to feel like they’re “in the know” OR if they truly think that an animal that dry humps, licks it’s own reproductive parts and pees on your foot when it gets excited (okay, I’ll give you this one, some kids might do this too), gives them the feeling that if someone is talking about how their child plays so well with other children in the playground to also say, “Oh! Fido, he is sooooo good with the other puppies in the dog park.” No… No… No… Fido is 4 years old which is (what’s 7×4?) 28 in dog years, A of all, he’s not a puppy, he’s a G-damn dog and, B of all, perhaps he plays well with the other dogs because he just sniffed their asses and perhaps tossed their salad while he was all up in there too. NOT. THE. SAME.
I will end this by also mentioning that I am not an animal hater. I cried so much (and loudly) when watching Marley and Me that I got kicked out of the theater before I could see the end. I come from a family where my Doberman had his own bedroom pre-Clinton administration (Socks the cat had his own room in the White House). He lived to be 21 years old because of the care and love he was given. He did not die by lethal injection because he had never murdered, raped or wore an orange jumpsuit and went peacefully and naturally. My husband and I had a furry baby 10 years ago, he was our first child, he was handsome, smart and a little divo of perfection. We mourned his death and continue to do so, we even almost named our son after him but at the end of the day, I am aware that he was not a human, even if he insisted on drinking chilled water out of a glass and would have rather died of dehydration than drink out of a dog bowl, I was and am still aware that at the end of the day, he could never be compared to a human child.
And for your viewing pleasure my fur sibling and fur baby.