The Shaming

I don't like cats. They're aloof and slightly neurotic and I don't trust them. I'm sorry. I don't. Stop reading if it offends your feline fanaticism. I will say, no animal was harmed in the typing of this blog entry. Or ever in my life, except for that mouse that Carrie and I smooshed in a frantic attempt to catch and release it. (Yes, I get it. A cat would have been handy.)

So, there's this orange striped tiger cat that roams our neighborhood. I frequently find it on our fence, on the bumper of my Explorer, and even on my porch swing. When I spot it, I'm quick to shoo the thing away. My husband doesn't understand. Especially when I mumble, "That f*#!ing cat," under my breath.

"Have you seen a mouse since we moved in, Babe? You better start thanking that cat," he says. Humph.

A few weeks ago, the girls and I were loading into the Explorer on our way to where ever we were going. I turned the corner, baby in my arms, to find that cat laying in my hostas. Without thinking, I lunged towards it and it took off running.

Now my hostas! The porch is no longer suffient? Oh! The nerve of that cat! And who does it belong to anyway? All these thoughts run through my mind as I strap the baby in her carseat.

"Come here, Virginia. It's your turn. Let's get in the truck so we can go on a trip." She skips over to me, reaches her hands up, and as I lift her into her seat, do you know what she says to me? Straight out of the mouth of my precious child:

"That f*#!ing cat."

Just as sweet as can be. Her face turned towards me, blue eyes sparkling in the morning sun, and her perfect little mouth smiling in weird juxtaposition to her language. I was stunned "What did you just say?" I asked out of disbelief. And there it was again.

An announcer appeared behind me, dressed in a tux and holding a microphone. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, the Mother of the Year Award goes to...." I felt the hot, white spotlight of my daughter's innocent and unblinking blue eyes.

She just stared at me, expectantly. As if she finally found a way to make me see her as a grown-up and now we could talk about the deficit and Afghanistan over a glass of pinot. Mortified doesn't do the embarrassment justice. Nothing can.

I quickly scolded her (because she is the one who needs scolding) and poured myself into the driver's seat. That cat sat under our neighbor's walnut tree as I pulled down the driveway. It watched me. We cut eyes at each other as I put the truck in drive and pulled away. I was too indignant to say it out loud.

Thank you, cat, for teaching me a lesson.

And Babe, you were right. (Oooooh! That one hurts!)

Further proof we're unfit parents: