I was pushing Emily around the back yard in her big plastic car yesterday evening when a sudden shriek erupted from the porch and Misty bolted outside. She'd been lighting the grill when a mouse had walked across the grate.
Luckily the igniter didn't work, because as Misty pointed out, she could just picture a flaming mouse running through the open door and setting the house on fire. I was charged with the task of confronting the mouse and turning the gas off, and Misty went inside to cook the sausages on the stove, vowing to wheel the grill out in the yard and scrub it down before ever using it again.
Today she called me at work to inform me that we're adopting a cat. "I know you'll say 'no'," she said, "but I'm bringing it home anyway."
"No," I said.
"It's too late, I've already decided," she told me. "He'll live outside, so it won't be a problem. He'll catch mice."
I'm allergic to animal dander, but that's not really the issue that concerns me. My disapproval stems from the fact that we've already got two dogs that drive us crazy. We really shouldn't have them considering our general lack of enthusiasm for their companionship, but there's that attachment you form before they're a pain in the ass, and you can't quite manage to shake it. Getting another pet, though, doesn't seem like a step in the right direction.
"We're getting this cat," Misty continued. "I already promised the vet I'd take him. I'm going to call him Sucka MC."
"No," I said.
"Isn't that a great name for a cat?" she asked, undaunted.
"We're not getting a cat, and you're not naming him Sucka MC."
I finally worked my position to compromise that we could get the cat if Misty would agree to part with the shih tzus. Every time I mentioned this option, though, she acted as if she didn't hear it.
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