One of the most frustrating aspects of cat motherhood vs. human motherhood (at least for me) is the gaping disparity in the availability and social acceptability of related paraphernalia. For human mothers, their future children are barely zygotes when they begin the race to accumulate as much non-toxic, primary-coloured, plasticy stuff as can possibly be afforded. A quick internet search revealed the following as the absolute minimum crap that must be purchased before a child starts making its way along the birth canal (and this was from the notoriously cost cutting NHS):
Nappies, bath and bath stuff, cot, bedding, moses basket, pram and buggy (or ram/buggy combo), baby carrier, car seat, clothes, bottles, steriliser, breast pump, breast pads, nipple cream.
This bare minimum alone must cost at least £1,000. Yet, while no one bats an eyelid at a rational, educated woman dropping the GDP of a small African nation to purchase the latest, greatest baby transportation mobile, a cat mother going into a pet store to purchase anything other than kibble or kitty litter is considered certifiable and submitted to much pitying glances and whispers. I’ve often felt like a 13 year old boy in a sex shop, scurrying out the door of Pampurred Pets as quickly as possible, with a catnip robin ensconced in an unmarked brown paper bag a and when I purchased a three-story cat activity centre, my Facebook friends dropped by half.
In fact, so victimised have I felt at others’ judgement that I am now tempted to purchase the above cat stroller if only to scare the living shit out of human mothers in the park. Oh the joy of finally being accepted into their midst only to have them peer beyond the rain cover at the furry, geisha face of my overweight feline son, Edward, and suffer the hideous consequences of their human child-induced inferior pelvic floors.