I'd Rather Be Skydiving

I'm at an age where everyone I know seems to be having children. Some friends are even on their second child, whereas I struggle to maintain a healthy living environment for my goldfish.

But this frenzy of simultaneous births has caused me to realize something: it's time that I, too, became a proud parent.

So I'm getting a cat.

I've long resisted getting a cat, out of fear of becoming that stereotypical old maid. I mean, you start with one cat, what stops you from getting two? And then a third? Next thing you know, you're 65 years-old, never married, and chasing away the neighbor kids with a dilapidated broom.

[And then, a couple years later, your half-eaten corpse is discovered by police after the paper boy reports an "unusual smell" radiating from your front door. You earn your 15 minutes of fame post mortem, with news stations nationwide reporting that the 123 cats you kept in your basement were so hungry after your passing that they had to — well, you get the idea.]

Point is, I don't want that for my future. Seemed the only way I could avoid that slippery slope was to avoid getting a cat altogether (not to mention, until recently I didn't live at an apartment that allowed them).

But being around Washington's cat has made me a tad nostalgic for those days of my youth when I always had a pet (cat, dog or both). And I've since committed to housing a particular (little) feline, who will soon join me at my abode. I was fine with this until Wednesday night, when it suddenly occurred to me that the cat might "tie me down" or "hold me back" from other life pursuits.

I mean, if I decide to abandon all of my wordly possessions and ride my bike from coast-to-coast some summer, what do I do with the cat? What happens when Lint and I backpack around Scotland? What if she [the cat, not Lint] scratches up my furniture? What if she meows like mad whenever I'm trying to sleep?

Thoughts like this (among countless others), hurtled me into a panic. I called one friend, who encouraged me to simply "back out" of the deal. I discussed the matter with a couple others, all of whom brought to light other problems I hadn't even considered ("man, her hair is going to be everywhere"; "you're taking her even though you've never seen her?"; "what if she and Washington's cat don't get along?"; "you do know it's like $100 to get them fixed... right?" etc.).

All of these insights were, somewhat ironically, followed with "but you should keep her — it'll probably be worth it" type remarks. That to me was like saying there are potential rewards to being kicked in the teeth.

But then I look in the corner of my living room, where I've stashed away all of her future belongings: the terry cloth bed; the food and water bowls; etc. Or I read over the list of potential names (which I'll formally decide after "meeting" her), and I almost feel a tinge of excitement.

If all else fails, I may convince my mum that the kitten is my Mother's Day gift to her. I mean, when we're kids our parents have to love whatever we give them — right? Even if it's an ashtray we made (or a kitten whose pregnant mother was abandoned by its owners), and our folks are nonsmokers (or dog-lovers)?

I'm hoping here that similar rules apply for adulthood.