I always knew I only wanted 1 child. I never once had visions of family vacations with my “children”, or huge holiday events with a big family I spawned… nor have I ever once felt bad about Sullivan not having any siblings. I have replaced myself in the natural order of human population, and my job is done. I am also well aware of my limitations, and I only have room enough in my psychological and emotional stability for 1 child. I had my one child early in my adulthood, and I have my herd of cats, and it’s all good… right? Apparently my hormones did not think so… and I had never realized just how powerful hormones are. They are so powerful that they can turn a Crazy Cat Lady into an even crazier Pocket Dog Owner (dog purse and matching decorative leash to boot).
In the beginning of January, a slew of tumors discovered on my cervix were stamped with the “Cancer” diagnosis. I don’t want this information to evoke any emotion from anyone, because I feel melodramatic even mentioning it (but it’s the entire reason why I am now I creepy Pocket Dog owner, so I am going to mention it). I am in no way a “Cancer survivor” or even a person “Living with Cancer”… I am at best a “Cancer Tourist”. I have had many friends who have lived with cancer, died from cancer, or have very much earned the title of “survivor”. I did not earn a thing. I got tagged by cancer and got kicked around a tiny bit by the emotional turmoil it brings with it- but all it took for me to escape it’s clutches was having half my cervix removed, and from now on I need to have biopsies every 6-8 weeks to keep an eagle-eye out for new growths to promptly chop off until there is nothing left of my ill-behaved cervix. I caught it early and am lucky (ladies… you had all better be getting your pap smears religiously, because the ONLY reason I’m lucky is because I’m religious about my lady-checkups). But I officially can never have any more kids…. and I’m so very much totally ok with that because the last thing I need is more babies.
What I’ve always found funny about people is that once we’re told we can’t have something, that’s the one thing we want. After the chop-chop of my cervix, I found myself getting increasingly clingy with the little things in my home. I kept trying to cuddle and baby the cats far more than they are comfortable with. I began hovering and smothering Sullivan with maternal coddling FAR more than a 13 year old boy could EVER be comfortable with. I wasn’t coherently thinking “baby baby baby baby I need a baby baby baby” because knew I didn’t want a baby… but I was trying to make all the self-sufficient creatures around me to be more infantile and dependent on me. This desperate need to nurture SOMETHING exploded in me. I was creeping myself out, but I couldn’t really stop it.
About 6 weeks ago my BFF that I work with came running into my office and asked me if I wanted a puppy. She saved a puppy from a kill shelter, but her dog and the puppy didn’t get along and she wanted to find a new happy home for it STAT. All afternoon I fought it, but my ovaries were screaming “SAVE THE BABY!!”. I texted Brad about 50 times debating all the reasons why we couldn’t have a dog in an attempt to talk my crazed maternal drive out of caring for another baby, but he finally said “You know you want the damn thing. Just bring it home”. And that was that.
I am now thoroughly convinced that someone should have given Octomom a litter of unwanted puppies before she had her litter of babies, much trauma could have been avoided. From the moment I got the puppy, all maternal screamings were quieted, and she was my new baby. I have gone from being the adamant cat-lady disgusted with dogs to being that creepy dog owner that carries my dog around in my purse, taking her with me on all errand-running outings, and she has attached to me the way a toddler clings to it’s mother’s leg. She’s part Chihuahua, and they usually only really bond with 1 person in a family- and despite how much Sully wanted her to be ‘his dog’ – she’s 100% mine.
So I introduce you to my little Chihuahua/Weiner dog (technically called a Chiuweenie) – Monkey. She’s pretty much the best. And our cats HATE her.
They day we got her, only 4 pounds.
My little sleeper!!
My neighbor and I and our matching Chihuahuas
The only time I've seen her NOT torturing poor old Oscar
So that’s my story. From this point on when I obsessively talk about my dog, it is because she is literally my new baby. And for all you out there who think you might want babies- get a puppy first. It might just take care of that maternal drive and save you shit tons of money (and your dog will never steal your car when it’s a teenager).