Somewhere A Clock Is Ticking…

Lately I’ve been having these extreme maternal instincts just running through my head at the most inappropirate times. Well… I guess at 23 anytime is an inappropriate time to have such thoughts running through my head, but no matter what I do these thoughts just don’t seem to go away.

Let me elaborate: It all started… as early as I can remember, at age 4 or 5. I was speaking to my mom and dad, you know, like any mature 4 or 5 year old could while holding her favourite stuffed animal, that it was time for me to have a baby of my own. Someone that I could take care of, someone I could play with and love and name it whatever I wanted. I was insistant; I was persistant. I was determined.

Yes – but as my loving parents pointed out: I was also 4 or 5. So that was a no-go.

19 or 18 years later I find that same urge creeping up on me as I begin to plan my last year of nursing school and my first full year of living on my own. It started when a friend of mine posted pictures of their first and second batch of foster children they had taken in – and instantaneously I fell in love. And slowly but surely the thoughts began to dance in my head – of my own… their names… their possible needs… how they’d fit so well into my future lifestyle… and of course, how the hell I’d manage to control my damn allergies.

Oh, did you think I was talking about HUMAN children?

I must be completely crazy, as I have nasal and sometimes skin-contact irritations, but ever since I was 4-5 years old, I have wanted a kitten (or 2) to call my own. And although my former roommate Daisy up and got a kitty despite my allergies and warnings that I would lock it in the bathroom if she ran off for random periods of time (which she did) with random men (again), I really warmed up to little Maverick and even invited him onto my comforter when his mommy was off doing God knows what. I began to enjoy his company first out of necessity, as Daisy was more often not a home – and so long as I vaccuumed the allergies were under control. It surprised everyone – mostly me – when I became more and more of a cat person.

My parents had 2 dogs: Cinny and Sam – and they were perfect. Well, Cinny was, but that isn’t the point. The point is the only actual pets I’ve owned, besides a goldfish and a bird in Hong Kong, have been dogs, and I’ve always considered myself a dog person. But since Maverick and other cats have come and gone in my life, I have warmed to them… and now I want one. And since next May I will be living in a bachlorette… what better way to celebrate my champagne year of life, my last year of nursing school, and my first and quite possibly only year of living alone than by getting the furry roommate I’ve always wanted?

Of course – owning a cat isn’t all fairy tales and happy endings. It’s cat litter, holes in your clothing, the responsibility to another living creature besides yourself; coming home to feed it, bathe it, nurture it, care for it, take it to the vet; find a suitable sitter when you travel, tagging and micro-chipping it to make sure no one gets lost… Which is why I figured that the best time for me to devote this much care would be the summer time. I have a number of friends to swap cat-sitting duties with (so long as each cat gets along with each other… as cat owners know that isn’t always the case) and extra cat-dishes left by Daisy in her hasty escape from my apartment.

In other words: by May I think I will be ready.

I’ve already decided that I would adopt a kitten, or a suitable cat, from the Ottawa Humane Society. Or 2. Who knows. At heart the Humane Society has good intentions, but I also know that they can’t always find good homes. If I could be one – and I can – then I would like to be. I remember going there to drop off my 2 dogs for adoption and the sight just broke my heart. Cinny absolutely did not want to go; it’s like she could sense the hopelessness of her fellow inmates. Thank God we got her out the next day to an EXTREMELY loving home. I still remember that feeling of jubilation the entire car felt when she (and my other dog) smelled the sweet air of freedom. And although we still had to say goodbye, I knew that she was in a much better place. That being said – the Humane Society does what it can; but it needs willing owners to do the rest. And I am so willing to give a kitty or a cat that sense of freedom, of escape, into a loving home.

So long as he doesn’t mind being named George Michael.

~ by Carrie on November 7, 2007.