Dogs are Boys, Cats are Girls
More than a fuzzy childhood memory.
Boys are dogs and cats are girls or musings from an idiot child.
No, im not going to check with anybody, why? How would I bring that up to someone, normally. Hi boy next to me who never speaks either. What do you think about boy dogs and girl cats. Nope.
I’m not going to ask another silly question about another silly thing. I will figure this out myself.
I believe I was 6, hopefully, no older. I hope I wasn’t 7.
My memory of childhood is a bit fuzzy.
But I do remember this as my first solid and fundamental animal truth (its a thing) —only later to be spoiled by my mother’s inconvenient truth (convenient timing for the complete truth Deb, or should I say “Little Debbie” — more on that later)
Her hopes for a future Mensa member were unfortunately shattered too. And most likely, I think that forced her to be extremely patient with me. Which turned out to be an anchor, in more ways than imaginable.
I probably spent more time thinking about how goddamned dogs are boys and cats are girls then you spent thinking about geometry in high school.
And remember, that all happened by 6, 7 at the latest. It was exhaustive.
“How do these children have time to play and socialize — I’ve got to figure how those huge dog babies got out of my last cat”.
And where did those babies go? Is that why she really died? Why would they tell me she was run over by Dad. Did he murder her on purpose? Confused. More Confused. Sad and confused.
In my younger years, I was what you may call a spitfire? A “unique” combination of treasure seeking astronaut with the sensitivities to the outside world of a T-mobile hot spot at a busy airport.
No wonder I would sometimes experience unbelievable headaches and mysterious sad spells for no apparent reason — sometimes right after the happiest of occasions. It hurt to think that much — all the time, even some nap times.
Time to tune into another episode of Unsolved Mysteries!
Me and my sister’s favorite show. She is “team murder reenactment”, and I’m tuning in for the
super creepy kidnapper suspect fan art
Creepy drawings that could have been done at my last family hog roast.
Our brother is doing something normal like shooting hoops in the driveway.
Finally, after about 8 or 10 super nonproductive Q and A sessions around the “private married life of cats with dogs” my friends Heather and Rebecca were frustrated as well. Or thoroughly confused. Maybe both.
And it was killing our concentration on the field and at the plate too. We lost hard to the Greyson Gators in yesterday’s game, 49 to 1. Just bad. And I’m pretty sure I’m batting under a thousand so….
The truth came out on the way home from our last slaughter of the last season of my T ball career. Two deaths in one day you could say?
I’m not going to lie and pretend I remember every word, but my mother is my second most understood subject “after me” so I can practically guarantee the conversation went something like this.
Me: Mom, when cats have babies how do they know beforehand how many they’re going to have and how much of how many?
Mom: Um, honey what do you mean by how much?
Me: Like how many of each type, dog, and cat. Do they know how many will be which?
Mom: No honey, cats only have other cats.
Me: What about boys?
Mom: Cats can have boys.
Me: But boys are dogs!
Mom: What?! Who told you that? Cats and dogs are different animals — both cats and dogs can be boy or girls. It’s ok, let’s go to U- Roll it and get an ICEE.
Then we’ll say hi and check out grandma Ivy’s garden.
Apparently, the thought of a more awkward, confused child feeding me this information provided a sort of comfort for my poor Mother.
But this was my truth. Or it was. I wasn’t sad that I was wrong. I was sad that I was so blind in the first place.
And I probably said it was Rebecca anyway. She was the queen of tarts to my king of tarts. I’m not sure that means anything to you. But it will.
Another mystery is around the corner. It was waiting for me.