Do you see this face? Yes, this one? I’ll wait while you look…
Notice the complete and utter lack of repentance?
This, ladies and gentlemen, is the face of a criminal. (Although around our household, she goes by a less-accusing moniker. Daisy, Daisy Dot, Daisy-Head-Maisy, depending on our mood.)
And this, Gentle Reader, is a cautionary tale: do not, under any circumstances, give birth to a girl-child who loves animals.
Because if you do, she’ll go through seven years of wanting to be a vet. And if you wish to be even the least-encouraging of parents, that will naturally mean you will volunteer at the local shelter. Which in turn will ensure close proximity to animals you wouldn’t otherwise have noticed, and guarantee a menagerie in your home that would easily fill a nobleman’s castle in eighteenth century England.
And right about the time that you have had it UP TO HERE with the feeding, bathing, and sheltering of said animals, she will decide she’s had a change of career plans. That she’s now into “human” beings. She wants to “converse” while she works. She might be a “nurse”.
So what has inspired this little diatribe? Well, yesterday morning my usually stellar organizational skills might have gone somewhat astray. So the animals may not exactly have been fed before I had to car pool; and the door to the cupboard which houses our dry goods might have been left slightly ajar; and too-smart-for-her-own-good-bundle-of-energy we call Daisy may not have been crated…
And I might have returned to find little caches of food all over the house: pearl barley spilling from a half-gnawed bag on the living room sofa, brown glutinous rice on the mat at the front door, red lentils in the hallway upstairs.*
But that I could handle. No, what disturbed me then–and is clearly still on my mind a full twenty-four hours later–was what she chose to nestle on the top of a suitcase in the hallway, within easy reach, should she care for a snack.
Cat poopsicles. Fish-flavored, litter-dusted cat poopsicles. Ewww!
The point of this story should be obvious, but for those of you who find my mad storytelling skilz a tad oblique, I will summarize:
- If you can blame your increasing girth on snowball cookies, feel free to borrow my dog.
- Never, ever, rescue an animal whose IQ and energy is higher than yours.
And the most critical of all
3. Ignore all nascent sparks of career preference in your offspring.
What about you people? Any cautionary tales you wish to share?
*Warning: This paragraph incorporates a subliminal, yet effective, health message.