Keaton is our eldest offspring.
And he's a thinker, that one.
On a normal day, it is all I can do to nod mindlessly at his endless chatter about inventions and ideas for movie plots and his newest fascinations for career possibilities. "That sounds great!" and "Fascinating!" exit my lips more often than a bee's knees shake in honey.
And today was a super mega ultra uber thinky day. And apparently the Lord got involved, also.
I was snoozing in my bed this morning. I had heard the boys roust around in between dream fades, and the next thing I know, I was being shaken awake by a panicked faced Keaton.
"Mom. I have a problem."
This had better be good.
"You know how I want to be an animal rescuer? Well, I just realized that I have a terrible problem. Since I'm also going to be a famous dude in a band, what am I going to do if there is an animal in like China that needs saving, and my concert is in America?"
This conundrum of a crisis was discussed for the next 3 hours. Because a panda bear's saving schedule might not mesh with the Kea-tones touring calendar.
Quite a problem indeed.
We were doing a bit of housework today, trying to get a few things cleaned up and put away from the Christmas haul. I was cleaning up the dishes and scraping the last of the petrified gingerbread houses from their plates; Sawyer and Tate were
playing with toys in their room cleaning their room; and Keaton was sweeping the kitchen floor.
All of a sudden, I hear the broom hit the tile and a series of snot-filled sobs coming from Keaton's bedroom.
Huh? What in the world? Surely the floor wasn't that bad. I mean the funkiness of Christmas funk can get nasty, but tears? Seriously?
"I. *sniff* miss. *sniff* Luke. *sniff* "
Huh? Luke? The cat, Luke? He's been dead 2 years.
"I just miss him so much. I want another cat." And there was another onslaught of snot and tears. I went back to the kitchen after a promise of a trip to PetCo to see the mice and ferrets -- pets we will never have and thus will never die in our possession. So sympathetic I am.
Fast forward to the evening. At the promised PetCo.
Picture with me the cat cage. Strategically placed at the front of the store with the kitties that need adopting. And the cage and all the this-n-thats in the cage are pink. Pink! Marketing genius.
There is a fur ball lounging inside the cat cage. There is a sign hanging on the pink feline palace stating that the kitty's name is Junior. I had an uncle named Junior. He's been neutered. Nice. And he's sweet. Good to know.
And he has 3 legs.
Wait. What? 3 legs?
"I must have Junior."
We don't need a cat.
"But don't you see? The Lord laid Luke on my heart today, and now here is Junior. With 3 legs. Just like our dog. Don't you see that it is meant to be? And I have $40...the exact amount of his adoption fee. I must take Junior home."
Now the Lord is in the cat adoption business. Good to know.
After more snot and more tears, Junior remains in his pink PetCo palace. And the husband and I might have just promised our son a trip to the Humane Society to adopt a new puppy.
Um...I think we were just hornswallowed.
Keaton is our eldest offspring.
Labels: Being Boy Crazy