Baby Mama Drama

or

Mary is a dirty ho

We named our cat "Mary Full of Grace." We loved her and protect her from the dangerous sexual practices of these mean Logan Square streets. She is an angel, a virginal heart, pure and simple. Come to find out that she is a knocked-up dirty tramp.

Under the impression that she was unsullied, we gave her a full round of booster shots. After announcing that she was most like pregnant, our vet recommended that Mary be spayed "regardless"--meaning, abort the most likely damaged...fetuses? Kittens? Cellular forms?

All the sweet Puerto Rican vet techs celebrated the news. "Oh, she's pregnant!? Mary! Mother Mary!" Our Catholic hearts constricted in our pro-choice chests. Sister whispered, "We need to schedule a spaying." "Oh. Okay! Schedule an abortion for tomorrow morning!" Sister began to cry. Sister said, "But we're Catholic!" Sister, normally an ice cold pragmatist, was inconsolable on the ride home, that whole night, all morning. She felt bad.

Your sainted Renegade, usually a weepy mess of empathy, was crystal clear. Sometimes you feel bad. The assumption that what feels bad is wrong and what feels good is right is idiotic. Life feels bad. Everyone suffers. Joy and pain, people, sunshine and rain. I do not want to raise deformed kittens. I do not want to give deformed kittens to lazy bastards. I don't want to contribute to the 33,000 cats euthanized each year in Chicago. Listen, I tell her: you eat meat. I put gas in your piece of shit car. We all have blood on our hands. I feel guilty all the time; I have made it a part of me, and despite it all, am rather buoyantly happy.

Your favorite Irish twins find ourselves in new territory: we have surprised each other. Sister marvels at my cynicism. I cannot believe how much she cries for the unborn kittens. After leaving Mary at the vet this morning, Sister is told that the procedure will cost her an unavailable $150. She calls me, certain that $75 is a price I will not pay, shocked when I say that I will. Truly, as Mary's mother and the one sobbing all the time, this decision is hers. I only wavered when my Best Friend sent an ecard congratulating Kitty Mary.

Of course, Sister did what she wanted to do. We have returned to familiar territory. She purchased a book, we are preparing a 'kittening' box. I am struggling to see Mary as a mother, a placenta-eating lioness. She was our kitten for so short a time! Where did our baby go? Why are her nipples so ginormous, and what is she doing to that pillow? Sister wants to prepare a manger. This never would have happened if we named her Squeakers, or Ragamuffin. Let this be a lesson to you all.