Dog-Ma

Although my barely detectable maternal instinct is wholly satisfied by caring for pets, others in my life are not so blessed. Many of them don’t have pets, or don’t want them, which is totally fine because more for me.

While I’ve been squirreling away cash for my dog's college fund, my friends have been busy nesting and baby-proofing their cribs. (MTV taught me that “cribs” is what today’s youths and rappers call “domiciles.”)   Taking into account my selfishness, disapproval of polluting the Earth with progeny and allergy to humans born after Ronald Reagan‘s first term, I figured these births would be the death of our friendships.

I feared the postpartum depression. The sleepless nights. The hemorrhoids. And I’m just talking about the effect their kids would have on *me*.

Possibly worst of all, I resented that I’d have to buy baby shower, birthday and holiday gifts for their little tax write-offs. When’s the last time someone gave my dog a present? Technically, mid-October. But it feels more dramatic and vindicating to say NEVER.
But when I’m wrong, I am wrong.

Upon the arrival of a friend’s first child, I reluctantly yet meticulously picked out the perfect congratulations-on-being-born present, and bore witness to the look of sheer joy and wonderment on her innocent, cherubic face as she happily wore the cutesy clothes. I’ve never felt more appreciated, so full of purpose. It warmed the cockles of my hard heart.

This is what being a mother is all about, I thought. I’m making a difference. Like Angelina Jolie with her caboodle of third-world orphans.  And thus, an entire wardrobe for my dog was purchased.