My son is an animal masher. You see, he’s very enthusiastic about animals, cats in particular. If he sees one I will hear “MEOW! Mama,” for the next hour or so. He may even have a full blown tantrum when the cat runs away. Lucky cat, I have to stick around and I have front row seats.

We currently do not have a cat nor do I want one. We already have an old bitey dog that I’m not that good with. She doesn’t really like me. In fact, she doesn’t like anyone but my husband. I thought I was an animal person. Turns out, not so much. I don’t need a cat that scratches or bites me too. Now, all you cat ladies out there, calm down. I’m not going to go out and kick a cat or anything, I’m just better with people and even that is questionable at times. Hell, I married a vegan and my son is vegetarian. We don’t even buy Procter & Gamble products because of the animal testing. See, I’d like to be an animal person, in theory, but I find them delicious and they don’t like me. This could be related. Still, I stand firm, no way are we getting a @#$%! cat.

Another bout of the ear piecing “Meow, mama!” as my son finally catches up with one of the braver, friendlier cats in the neighborhood (and there are a lot of them). The look on his face as he squats down is over the moon adoration. The joy in his piercing squeals (about an inch from the cat’s face) is so obvious I can’t help but smile. I smile, but deep down I’m thinking “(Insert swear of choice)! We have to get a cat and a litter box!” and my smile tightens around the edges. I fight to keep smiling, for Dorian and to calm down the cat that now understands just how scary a gigantic over excited toddler can be. I wrestle the cat free from his iron grasp (before it is hugged to death) and it bolts away.

If I ever do break down and get him a cat, I’ll have to get it from the pound. I’m just going to walk in there, slap down some cash and say, “Today I’m the kitty governor and I’m here to grant a pardon. I want to take home the next cat about to be put down.” It’s the only way I can really justify handing a cat over to my Lenny-Tell-Me-About-The-Rabbits boy. He cries when animals get hurt, bawls his eyes out when they eat each other on animal planet. Yet he feels just fine smack/petting grandpa’s cat while explaining (in his very best and loudest outdoor voice) how much he loves it though. Endearing, amusing, and disturbing all at once, like a lot of moments in parenting, I’m finding.

So, for now we are cat free. I let Dorian chase the cats around the park and around the complex as much as they’ll let him. Sometimes he catches them. Sometimes I bring the torture indoors. I put the dog outside (probably happy for the toddler break) and let these two very persistent cats in our neighborhood in to explore and dart away from Dorian’s merry abuse. I pay them for their services in a bit of tuna or milk. They eat and wander until Dori tires of chasing them then I sneak ‘em back out when he isn’t looking. They get a good and easy meal and a little rough lovin, my son gets his cat fix, and I’ve solved the problem without adding more poop to my life. Any parent will tell you, that is a good day.