The Best Laid Plans of Mice, I Mean Cats and Men

Art imitates life. Or cats imitate art.  Or in a few months, we might have free kittens for good homes.

Yesterday I got my IUD removed which means MathMan and I must use a new method of birth control.  (Please note the copay for the elective surgery called vasectomy is and always has been out of our range of possibilities, so thanks for the suggestions, but no can do.) 

Considering our past inability to find and use effective methods not involving hormones, this should be fun.  We already have three "unplanned" children.  Unplanned does not equal unwanted (most of the time.)  We have living, breathing, food consuming, mess making evidence that neither coitus interruptus nor a wish and prayer - against, not for - are not, I repeat not, no matter what that guy told you in high school - effective methods of birth control.

And while all of our children were wanted and treated like happy little surprises until they pooped that first time, only one of them was a conscious decision.  On my part, that is.  MathMan just got dragged along for the ride.

Which would explain why, in anticipation of my IUD removal, he reminded me of my determined efforts to have a baby back when I was a silly young thing of twenty-five.  I'd stopped taking the pill because of weight gain and as a youngish married couple, we employed methods ranging from Russian Roulette to Hey, Nice Pearl Necklace! and when we were feeling responsible, condoms.  The Diaphragm and Spermicidal Jelly Incident proved both disastrous and traumatic.  MathMan didn't enjoy having a burning wang and I got woozy watching him standing in the shower trying to rinse out his third eye.  We were both such delicate creatures back then.  Parenthood would solve that.

We made that trip into the Carson Pirie Scott Baby Department where I saw those booties and next thing you know, I'm in Mom Training big time.  I started watching Mr. Rogers and Sesame Street on PBS, purchasing books on why midwives are superior to ob-gyns, quizzing my sister-in-law about her cesarean section and tossing around baby names.  MathMan knew trouble was brewing.  He just didn't realize how much trouble and how sinister it would be until it was too late.

So a couple of days ago, he thought it best to remind me of my past determination or folly, if you will.  "Listen, our anniversary is on Saturday.  Please remember what happened the last time you bit a hole in the condom on our anniversary."

Clever gods took their cue.  Chloe walked by our open bedroom door and glanced in.  "What?"  It's how she likes to open conversations these days.

I blinked at her and turned back to MathMan.  "I remember."

We've agreed that we will not tempt fate.  Abstinence, oral sex or butt sex it is.

Put your money on abstinence.

As if we needed our resolve reinforced, those same clever gods delivered this healthy dose of reality:

Nate went downstairs this morning to find Fiona the Not Exactly a Kitten Anymore standing outside the patio door staring back at him.

Oh.  Dear.

Listen, ever since I was that girl watching the city works guy on the cherry picker coaxing my kitten from the top of the electric pole, I've tried to have indoor cats only.  I can't take the stress of what if.  For weeks after that electric pole drama, I would not let that kitten out and when he did sneak out, I would search the streets, sobbing and calling for him before I would go inside to cry into my pillow and dream of horrible things happening to my precious.  So this kitten, who is yet unfixed because we haven't had the extra money to pay for her surgery, has been kept inside, forcibly maintaining her virtue even as she's been serenaded by the neighborhood Toms.

When the urge got to be too much, she'd bump and grind at our indoor male cats.  Since they no longer recognize the need, they responded with uncomfortable looks, searching for a quick escape from her mewling advances.

Last night she got out.  I believe she sneaked out while Chloe and her friend were coming or going. Thankfully, or maybe not, Fiona survived her nocturnal prowlings, but I doubt her virtue remains intact.  Upon her reentry into the house, all the other Pussies for Peace took defensive postures.  It was Crouching Tabby, Flattened Maine Coon Ear. Both male cats sniffed suspiciously around her backside. For her part, she acted a bit bored as she picked spider web from her whiskers.

Someone hissed.  It could have been me, but I think it was our alpha male tabby.

Bad Girl Fiona gave him a look.

"Hey, I offered.  You weren't interested, you eunuch," she said between bites of her food.  She was ravenous.

Before.

Adventures in Real Parenting: The Fine Art of Pussy Procurement

Friday evening while I was out doing crazy, irresponsible things like meeting up with blogger buddies, my cellphone rang and rang. I checked the display to see if it was anyone I wanted to talk to - you know, Sarah Palin finally calling to apologize for being such a Divisive Delores or the lottery commission calling to notify me of some big winning, but no, it was just Garbo calling to ask me to say yes to something her daddy had already said "no" to. This is how the game is played, speaking of divisive.

I chose not to answer the phone.

Eventually, MathMan called for some thing or other and I mentioned the repeated, ignored calls. "She's just calling to beg you to keep a kitten she found," came his response.

Uh huh.

People of the internets, it seems that there is a level of cat ownership at which one must stay. Five seems to be our predestined level. We had five before: Tiger, Daisy, Morris, Ivy and Pyewacket. When we moved, Pyewacket, the neighborhood jack about town, stayed behind with the other families who fed him and called him their own. Now we were at four.

Except Friday afternoon, two kittens climbed from the ditch separating us from our neighbors and ran straight for the gang of Covered Bridge Springs Tarts who were horsing around in the yard. Much squealing ensued, I'm sure.

Garbo grabbed one kitten for her own, the neighbor twins grabbed the other. Mama Cat was nowhere to be seen. (She still hasn't reappeared.) MathMan began in earnest to say the word 'NO' over and over again. That's when my cellphone began ringing.

Later that evening, when I arrived home, I was implored to please at least lay eyes on the sweet little baby. I should have known better. I wasn't twenty seconds in to my love fest before I declared that we would have to keep her. People, pussy makes me stupid, that's all there is to it.

Later that evening, as I sweet-talked MathMan about how were now going to have to keep the kitten, I thought I heard another cat. When I couldn't spot one, I gave up looking. The next morning, though, I heard it again. Thinking it might be Mama Cat crying out for her babies, I walked down to the ditch and called "Kitty, kitty, kitty....."

A little gray kitten, nearly identical to the one we had ran from the bushes and skidded to a halt on the edge of the ditch. As I was instructing it to be careful and stay put until I could come around and get her? him?, the kitten reared back on its haunches and made the great leap over the deep ditch. It was like watching Evel Kneivel jump that motorbike over the canyon.

And then there were six.

Turns out the neighbor twins were told to put that cat back where it came from. They have a smart mama, you see. Thankfully, MathMan found a home for number six, putting us comfortably back at our five cat level. Again. Thanks be to the fellow school teacher who took that kitten. I'd hate to mess with the number gods on this one.

And so that is my story of pussy procurement. Not as much fun as cruising the redlight district in any given city, but with a lot less chance for STDs, too. You've gotta find the good in things, right?

Here's another home movie for you....

Because I have nothing better to do than make goofy movies, that's why.