This little fella Ethan has dubbed Arrow. He's a 6-week-old Heinz 57, so graciously "gifted" to us by our wonderful neighbor, Deb.
(She's a dead woman.)
(I don't mean literally. Yet.)
Deb, you'll recall, is the boozing Brit who tempts fate by passing out crap candy at Halloween, and lives, it seems, solely to torment me.
Oh, I'm not saying the cat isn't cute, or that he couldn't possibly weasel his way into our shriveled black hearts. We're not monsters, or Korean, or anything.
(That's a joke. Monsters are totally misunderstood.)
No, it's the sneaky, underhanded means of foisting the cat on our unsuspecting selves that has me planning her slow, painful demise.
She asked our five-year-old if he wanted to take the kitty home.
Now, I'm not a rookie at this parenting game. Not only have I spent the last five-and-a-half years raising my own son, but I've been a very involved auntie in my 16 nieces and nephews lives for the past 20 years. And never--NEVER--have I encountered a play quite as reprehensible as the ol' tugging on the child's heartstrings to unload your bastard cats move.
Low, Deb. So very low.
Especially since she knew that he has been asking for a pet for the past two years.
I know the ultimate decision belongs to us, as his parents, and I suppose I could have done the appropriate (read "mean") thing and told him no, but I just couldn't find it in me to break his little heart.
I sent him to his dad instead.
How was I to know Squidward would cave?
So, yes, we have a cat, and a very happy little boy.
Watch your back, Deb. It's on now.