I'm a Father

I said I would never work in an office, and I've been working in one for just over two years.

I said I would never take a job offered by one of my family members, and I did.

I said I would never become a father, and at approximately eleven o'clock in the morning I received a phone call informing me that my beloved cat, Desdemona, gave birth to three healthy kittens in a cardboard box and was hunkered down in my housemate's bedroom cleaning them with her tongue.

I have received no status reports since that time, but the entire ordeal has led me to question my plans of providing unlicensed medical diagnoses since I had deliberately palpated Desdemona's abdomen one week earlier and confidently proclaimed that she was, in fact, not with child. Last night, when one of my housemates barged into my room complaining of having had menstrual blood dribbled down his arm, I reinforced my earlier diagnosis by providing him with a deferential wave of my GameCube controller and saying, "Well. At least we know for sure that she's not pregnant. Now watch me open up a cut on this fucker's eyebrow."

In effect, I became one of those doctors I bitched about in my Case Report a few months ago. I exhibited total lack of regard for my patient, and had I taken the time to properly evaluate the situation, I most likely would have recognized the material on my friend's arm for what it was: amniotic fluid. Personally, it sounds like a good enough litmus test to satisfy my needs. If the myriad misdiagnoses in this country prove anything, they must point to inefficacy in the primary care system that employs underqualified/unconcerne d physicians to make critical initial assessments of a patient's health. Failures at this level can cause serious illness, if not death, and just as I hope justice will be served against me in order to provide Desdemona with some manner of retribution, so should primary care physicians pay for negligent mishandling of their faithful patient-base.

But that's not what I'm on about here. There is plenty of time to discuss fundamental malformations in our healthcare system and, verily, more qualified people than I to provide you with such services. On the contrary, I have 6-8 weeks to mull over these kittens and ensure that they are properly nursed, weened, and given away to caring people who will refrain from pithing them with needles and running them through defrost mode in Cold War-era microwaves. Being the absent-minded caretaker of a feline strumpet prowler, it is my responsibility to monitor the safety of her offspring. In the immediate future, this means keeping Thomas, my roommate's bruiser of a cat, away from the litter lest his territorial pride gets the better of him and we all come home one day to find Dez tied to a chair mewing in distress over the mutilated carcasses of her three murdered kittens.

It would be an ugly scene to behold, and the bastard would certainly have to pay for such cold-hearted treachery. He has lived long enough in our civilized household to understand the rules. I have certainly informed him of the restrictions outlined by the No Homicide Clause contained in his signed-and-dated lease papers. Any behavioral derivation resulting in a breach of the agreed upon stipulations will be dealt with accordingly. If he does succumb to the murderous glint in his eye, he can rest assured that I will strangle him, carve the Code of Hammurabi into his skull, and devour his eyeballs on the spot. No Funeral for the Heathen Warrior. No flaming pyre. I will put the remainder of his corpse through the garbage disposal and be done with it.

I have been accused quite frequently of cruelty to animals, and perhaps outlining a vendetta fantasy against an "innocent" cat isn't the best way to dispel these suspicions. Mind you, these accusations stem from similar musings of mine involving carnivorous fish-fighting rings, wrestling bear cubs, and the occasional ill-advised statement that I would--if provided the opportunity--eat a dog.

But these things are simply daydreams akin to Albert Einstein's thought experiments. In truth, I would never hurt an animal. I would sooner batter a human than lay a malicious hand upon a creature--domestic or feral--unless it was in self-defense. Insects and arachnids are notable exceptions to this rule, though I do and will continue to maintain that dispatching of such villainous refuse is an inherent act of preservation and cannot, in the context of modern parlance, be considered equatable to cruelty.

I do, after all, consider myself a reasonable man.

Here we go. A nice little prelude to potential lapses of judgment or downright defiance of previously stated positions and desires. How I deal with this litter of kittens might be a good indication of how I will fare in the future as a father (Lord help me). Maybe not, though. From what I've read, it is best to leave the mother alone and allow her to rear the kittens without interference. Still, there is some odd, creeping feeling in the back of my head. The voices from the Place of Human Mess are telling me that I don't quite understand--that I am misinterpreting my own analogies.

Something about cats and humans being...different, is it? Yes. That's it. Different.

I wonder what they mean.