This blog post may be a little hard to read for some, since it discusses the death of our pets. I mean this in a strictly hypothetical sense, because both of our cats are still alive and well. For some reason, I can’t seem to convince Liam of this fact. If ever there were a hypochondriac by proxy, that person would be Liam.
It’s not often that you find a guy who’s a cat person. Most men want a big, lovable, energetic dog–one that will greet them with love and kisses every day of the week, no matter what. We all know that, generally speaking, cats are a lot less likely to show unconditional love. Of course, nothing happens exactly as it should in the Barry household, so we’ve managed to raise two cats who seem to think they’re dogs. No kidding–they respond when called, they curl up in our laps, they follow us from room to room, and they wake us every morning for their food. As for unconditional love…well, they’re cats. They expect that from us, and they’re pretty reserved until they get it.
The girls, Luna and Rosie, were three years old when I met Liam. My poor husband, who refuses to admit that people and pets get older, still tells people the cats are three years old. (This makes me wonder how old they really were when we met, of course.) Since we’ve been together for eight years as of next month, I estimate their ages to be eleven years old. (Again, provided he was honest about them being three years old when he and I met.)
As you can see, there’s already a bit of separation anxiety beginning. The girls are Maine Coons, and they’ve lived inside their whole lives. They’re happy, healthy, and, according to most sources, likely to live until they’re about eighteen to twenty years old. If they’re only eleven now (again with the IF), that gives us several more years of love and affection to enjoy.
However, Liam’s hypochondria by proxy keeps rearing its ugly head. After a particularly rough playtime between Luna and Rosie, Luna showed a bit of a limp for a day. This prompted Liam to wonder if she was going to be okay. Would infection set in? Would she get gangrene and lose her leg? Worse, would she die?
If the worry had stopped there, one might shrug and imagine that his behavior could be described as normal. Did it stop there? Of course not. This is Liam we’re talking about.
“If she dies, we don’t have anywhere to bury her. We’ll have to put her in the freezer until we can find somewhere. Do you want to go in the freezer, Luna? We could have her taxidermied! She could sit on our mantel forever in this position right here.” (He manipulated Luna into an adorable sleeping position, unknowingly putting pressure on her sore leg and receiving a nasty scratch for his efforts.) “Then when Rosie dies, we can have her stuffed, too. And we’ll be able to keep them forever and put them in random places in the house so it’s like a surprise.”
This is kind of sweet, babe, but stop it. It’s definitely more on the creepy side.
He’s going to kill me for this blog post.
PS, they won’t be stuffed. Anyone planning visits in the future will not need to worry about creepy taxidermied cats staring at them from random spots in the house. Just…no.
PPS, he also offered to have me taxidermied, too, when I expressed dismay that he seemed to love the cats more than me. Quit being creepy, Liam.