Before Bean arrived on the Bradshay scene, we had two dogs named Sam & Bailey. Now, I was never the sort of person who referred to them as my furbabies or discussed them with my parents as the grandpups, but I loved them both a whole lot. It made me super sad when both Sam & Bailey were adopted to new homes because Bean was massively, alarmingly allergic as an infant. Very sad indeed, but I have never seriously considered getting another pet since the day our pups left – I have had enough to do in the meantime, believe me.
Bean, however, has always wanted a pet real bad. When she was three, we were driving home from daycare one evening and she asked me for a bunny, since she is allergic to both dogs and cats. Now, I am an Idaho girl and have seen my share of pet rabbits, so I knew full well that I was lying when I told Bean that rabbits were really high maintenance and a lot of work. There was definitely truth in my thoughts about having a pet being a massive responsibility though, and three years old wasn’t exactly a responsible age. Bean carefully considered this notion, then asked how old I thought she’d need to be in order to earn this responsibility. I told her 10, pulling the number out of thin air. Bean was satisfied and I congratulated myself on a job well done.
Kindergarten brought the all-my-friends-have-cell-phones-can-I-have-one-too conversation. Uhhh, not just no but HELL no. I don’t care how many Disney Jr apps you put on it, a Kindergartner has zero need for a smart phone. I told her she’d have to be content to play on my phone occasionally, explaining how much phones cost and how easily they broke. And then, for the first time but certainly not the last, my kid trumped me like so:
B: Wow. Having a phone is a big responsibility, huh mom?
Me: Exactly right.
B: How old do you think I’ll need to be for that responsibility?
Me: Uh, I dunno babe, let’s talk about it when you’re 10 or so.
(long pause)
B: Gosh, mom. Ten is gonna be a big year for me. That’s when I get my cell phone AND my bunny.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Bean is 11 now. I grew so tired of the bunny conversation last year that I offered to make her rabbit stew the next time she brought it up. I refuse to call it a bunny, because bunny sounds cute. I call it a rabbit. Rabbit is delicious. I can tunnel bone a rabbit out in fifteen minutes and stuff it full of deliciousness. Nobody wants to snuggle a roasted rabbit because rabbit is NOT a pet. Then my freaking brother went and got HIS kid a pet rabbit, because of course he did. So now every time we video chat with the cousins, there’s Jupiter hopping around and Bean squeals and begs anew. Enter my growl of serious annoyance here. My main issue with rabbits are the smell. And the teeny tiny poop pellets that seem to be everywhere. I have enough poop in my life, thanks so much. This is exactly what I tell both my brother and my daughter, and if they persist I start pulling out recipes for fricassee.
Last night, Melissa was trying to cajole Roo out of his dour attitude and started a little impromptu dance party in the kitchen. Having the retention span of your average goldfish, Roo came around pretty quickly. Things were looking up all around until Melissa noticed a rabbit pellet fall out of Roo’s pajama pants. At least, she thought it was a rabbit pellet. Then we quickly realized it was a Roo pellet and he had actually dropped poop on the kitchen floor because he didn’t want to clean his behind in the bathroom. Closer inspection of the house found more Roo pellets all over the fricking house. THERE WERE TEENY TINY CHUNKS OF TURD ALL OVER THE DAMN PLACE. I’m not just talking about the kitchen but the living room, the stairs, on his brother’s bed. POOP WAS EVERY-FRICKING-WHERE.
Out comes the vacuum and the Purell and the Lysol. The laundry pile got a whole lot larger And out comes a serious conversation with my son, who looked me straight in the eyes and summed up our talk by saying, “So…. Just so we’re clear… You’re saying if I feel even a little poop start to poke out of my butt, I should go to the bathroom right away and wipe it?”
Y’all. I can’t. I fricking CANNOT EVEN with this kid. I don’t even want to anymore. Who needs a bunny? I just need a seven year old. At least you can train a bunny to use a litter box. I can’t even train Roo to wipe.
I’m telling you, there is an untapped market for people to deal with this nonsense. Like some sort of hybrid-cross between Terminix, fat camp, an exorcist and the Super Nanny. I’m gonna start a camp for kids like Roo, who think poop is something they shouldn’t be forced to clean. It’ll be full of hundred – no, thousands – of rabbit cages for them to muck out on the daily and staffed by anyone other than me. Camp Fecalpocalypse will save the sanity of mommies and daddies everywhere. I don’t care how much it costs – I’ll sell a kidney if I have to. My brain simply cannot survive another Roosplosion. I will have a brain aneurysm and the medics will find me clutching my head and lying on a pile of teeny, tiny turd chunks. And no one will be surprised, because of course Roo will have failed out of Camp Fecalpocalypse the summer before.
Maybe I will just buy the effing bunny and sell the kid. Do you know anyone in the market for a cute, highly intelligent little sasspot who craps himself on a regular basis? Send them my way – you don’t even need my address. Just follow your nose, man.
My Five Ring Circus 