A Story of Sibling Rivalry

I am a cat person. Now, before all you disturbed doggy lovers take offense at my position on this hairy issue, allow me to explain the source of my attitude. I am having serious sibling rivalry issues with my parents' three fuzzy, overly friendly, spoiled rotten little fur balls. There are many sources of my neurosis regarding this problem.

First, they were adopted - the chosen ones. My brother and I arrived and they were stuck with us. My theory is that after we moved out and their fear of our moving back in subsided, the empty nest syndrome caused them to come to the erroneous conclusion that they were lonely and their bank account was just too full.

There are three of them. There were two of us. As the oldest, I was the responsible one (actual definition of responsible: the one to blame when something gets broken). An older sibling would certainly have relieved some of the pressure. Their new daughter has an older brother and a younger brother. They are all allowed to play ball in the house. No one worries "something will get broken." They are allowed to fight. No one gets grounded when there's bloodshed. These behaviors are not only allowed, but encouraged. Naughty is the new cute.

Their new children (hereinafter referred to as the "Others) will never need to stop sleeping in my parents' bed. Even in their old age, they'll be coddled, caressed and worshiped. That stopped for me after that unfortunate bed-wetting incident. They'll never comprehend or appreciate the trauma of potty training. The whole world is their potty.

Each of the Others has special, specific dietary needs. My mother specially prepares three separate meals, twice a day, each and every day. She cooks for them. She never cooked for us. She pointed. Cereal. Spoons. Bowls. Go for it. For years, I thought "main course" meant, "served in a bowl, soaked in milk."

Toys. Between the three of them, these fuzzy little fur balls have more toys than are presently stored in F.A.O. Schwartz's warehouses. Their collection of balls alone would put any respectable three year old's toy box to shame. And, they're allowed to leave them scattered all over the house, where anyone could trip over them and take a really nasty spill. We had three toys. Each. And they'd better be put back where they belong after we had the unmitigated gall to play with them. Or somebody was "gonna get it." The fur balls never heard the phrase "gonna get it." And even if they did hear it, their first thought would be "Treat," not "Trouble." On a recent visit to my parents, my mother proudly pointed out the wonderful new addition to their backyard. A swimming pool. For the dogs. Ten feet by six. Inflatable, colorful, full of cool clean water. We certainly never had such a source of fun when we were children. We eagerly awaited each and every torrential downpour so we could splash in those massive puddles that would sometimes form at the end of the driveway.

Clothing. The Others. Virgin Wool. Hand knit. Specialty catalogs. Us. K-Mart. Blue light special.

When we annoyed my parents, rarely of course, we were sent to our rooms, sent to the neighbors or (kiddingly?) told, "Go play in traffic." The Others have a fully fenced, highly secure, pleasantly appointed play area in the back yard. This houses the Olympic doggy sized pool and luxurious lounging area.

We grew up in the era of "Children should be seen and not heard." And we adhered to this rule. Consistently. When guests visited our home when we were little, we were allowed to say hello. At that point, we were permitted to say good-bye and retire to our rooms. The three little monster hairballs are not only allowed to bark to their heart's content, but accost visitors with unrestrained enthusiasm, up to and including humping said visitor's legs. This was not a tolerated behavior when I lived there.

They bring these hairy little things to the Grooming Studio once a month. Yes, that's right, every four weeks for a shampoo, a massage, clipping, primping, cutting and curling. They even smell good when their personal groomer is finished. She sprays them with a sweet smelling, expensive perfume and puts a little bow in their hair or a colorful kerchief around their little necks. Not the accessory I'd choose for their scruffy little necks. I didn't know the definition of the word beautician until I was well into my twenties. My mother, a diehard former "do-it-yourselfer" would gleefully retrieve the manicure scissors four times a year and snip my off my too-long bangs until they reached the top of my forehead. It was just never quite level, you see, so she'd have to keep trying to even it up. Once my bangs were gone completely, my mother would stand back and exclaim in satisfaction, "Done!"

Every single night, we had to brush our teeth and twice-yearly visits to the dentist were mandatory. Not the brats. They don't have to brush their teeth at all. Once a year the vet might do it. But believe me, toilet drinking, butt licking carnivores need to brush their teeth on a regular basis, like eight or ten times a day. One whiff of malodorous, nauseating doggy breath would convince anyone with a sense of stench the truth of this statement.

Yes, I admit it, I am jealous of the smelly, spoiled silly little scrub muffins. I know they're just dogs, but that doesn't change the facts. I do wish, however, that my parents would stop referring to them as my sister and brothers. Truly, there is no physical resemblance. I told my mother I'd be nice though. As long as she makes them brush their teeth more often and quits trying to cut my hair.