If you have a pet, do you consider them your child? Do you think of yourself as their parent? Me too!
So why is it that when someone asks if I have kids, since I’ve never bore human biological ones, I awkwardly answer “no”, even though my mind is screaming “yes”?
I understand this is potentially a controversial question if posed to someone with homo-sapien offspring and no pet. After all, those children have erect posture, bi-pedal ambulation, an opposable thumb for manual dexterity, and what Wikipedia calls “a general trend toward larger, more complex brains and societies”.
I would offer to those nay-sayers that in the small sample size of my own two quadrupeds – one jumps erectly when she’s excited, one can hold a nylabone like nobody’s business despite no opposable paw-pad, and although their simple brains may not take up as much space, to my knowledge neither has ever displayed the horrifying behavior reported of many human beings every day on the news. I think that at least entitles them to some level of respect as members of my family.
I will concede that I did not carry either of them in my womb and go through the pain of childbirth to push them out into the world. I adopted them. And I dare anyone to tweet or post than an adoptive parent is not a real parent.
So why am I pondering this today you ask? Dog vomit. Last evening before dinner I heard dry-heaving, only to find my cocker spaniel, Meg, had just vomited up food from breakfast. (Hey, you asked.)
Wanting to give her digestive system a rest so it could relax and try to heal itself, we held dinner for her. Keep in mind, this was a juggle since we couldn’t not feed our other cocker spaniel, Jaisy, and didn’t want Meg to see what she was missing out on.
This morning, still half asleep after they woke me up much too early, I thought it might be best to give her yogurt for breakfast in place of her usual food. Easier to digest as well as a way to add pro-biotics to her digestive system. Since we didn’t have any in the fridge, this meant running up to the grocery store.
Not wanting her to have to wait the length of time it would take me to shower and get dressed, I threw on sneakers and walked out the front door in my pajamas. Luckily I don’t sleep in cute nighties, right? As I drove I did a quick self-check and deemed my flannel shorts and tee-shirt acceptable grocery store attire.
As I walked through the refrigerated dairy section, I noticed a few workers looking at me a bit strangely. Remembering at that moment that my chilly self was not wearing undergarments, I tried not to make eye contact and just finish this mission as quickly as possible.
Luckily she likes yogurt. I lifted up her floppy ears as she licked every last morsel so they wouldn’t end up sticky falling into her bowl. Sitting on the floor with her, holding back her hair, definitely felt like a mom moment.
I don’t have to look back further than last week to create a mental list of things I’ve done to take care of my dogs that most people would only do for their own kids. And if you are still reading this, I’m sure you can make the same list right now for your own fur babies.
At “camp gramma” last week Jaisy was having trouble pooping. I’m sure I am not alone in calling my mom and dad “gramma” and “grampa” when talking to my dogs. And that they are not alone in lighting up when their “grand-dogs” come to visit.
Any animal parent knows when their pup’s poop routine is off because we are used to following them around the yard with the little bag and have sub-consciously developed a system of evaluating what we see. Are they straining? Is it taking longer than usual? Is it formed? How’s the color. If this month’s dog food flavor is changed, even within the same brand, we can identify the difference in their output. (You’re nodding your head “yes” right now, aren’t you?)
But I digress. As she’s straining, I can see a poop that is almost out of her bum, but somehow unable to break free to land on the ground, because it appears to be still connected to some sort of string still partially lodged inside of her. On closer examination, I think it might be one of my long hairs……… I vacuum weekly, I swear. How it got in there, I don’t know, but that mystery needs to wait for another time.
Mid-sentence talking to my mom I squat next to Jaisy and proceed to pull the hair, with poop attached, out of her bum and place it in the bag. My only focus at that moment was her helping her, and she thanked me kicking grass up all over me as a sign that her task was finally successful. As she scampered off, my only feeling was relief that she was ok – only later realizing that other onlookers could potentially be completely grossed out by what they had just witnessed. (Don’t worry, I washed my hands.)
So back to Meg. Last night she vomited again, following a treat we tried to give her for doing “good things” outside. As she lifted her head back up, I noticed the bile-laden saliva hanging from, and stuck to, her mouth. Not wanting her to feel more uncomfortable as she already must have been, I wiped her mouth with my hand to clean her off.
I then proceeded to take her ball, which is her constant companion and now also covered in goop, to clean it off on my shirt before she managed to put it back in her mouth. Only a parent could touch that without hesitation, or gagging themselves.
The things we do for our pets without hesitation categorically puts us into “care-taker” status. Since they are helpless to thrive, healthy and safe, without us, might we go so far as to classify them as our dependents? And since we love them unconditionally, quirks and all, putting their well-being often before our own, couldn’t you call that parenting?
So if we are parenting these little souls, as our dependents, wouldn’t that make them our children? You bet it does!
Don’t worry girls….. mommy’s here.