Males Don't Stand a Chance

Not many of the male species survives long in our house. Take Shane for instance. The poor little guy never stood a chance.

We brought two fish, Shane and Hannah, home from the pet store yesterday. The adorable pair sported neon blue stripes down their backs and darted about the aquarium in unison. For about sixty minutes. One brief hour in my estrogen-oozing family sent Shane packing to hide in his cave in a pink fluorescent rock tower. Pretty quick, he gave up and went belly up. Sigh. Another one down the drain.

I like males, I really do. I adore my son, Dawson. In fact, I enjoyed him so much I decided that he needed a brother.

Baby #2 arrived right on schedule. A girl. Desiree was a cute little thing, though, so I kept her.

Baby #3. Another girl. Dang! But Baby #2 needed a playmate to I kept Faith, as well.

Baby #4. A girl. Jenna Lee. This wasn't funny anymore. It struck me that God DOES possess a sense of humor and I was His joke.

I gave up on babies and tried animals instead. We adopted a feisty Jack Russell terrier from the animal shelter. If I couldn't give Dawson a brother, at least I could give him a male dog to pal around with. Before long, Buddy couldn't handle the stress and began biting the girls. Bye-bye Buddy. Sigh. Another one.

Next I brought home the cutest little orange furball from the feedstore. Smart girl that I am, I checked three times with the clerk to make sure that Garfield was a boy. I couldn't make...um, heads or tails out of that end of him. But she assured me he was a male and I proudly took the kitten home. I felt such satisfaction. It took eight years, but I finally snagged a boy for Dawson!

Unfortunately, one day Garfield began acting strangely. His meow switched from contentment to a horrid, anguished sound. His rear legs struggled to support the back half of his body and he drug his hind end along the floor. I made a tearful emergency run to the vet's office, certain that he suffered from either a ruptured disc in his spine or an intestinal blockage.

In the exam room, Garfield's cry shook me into a near panic. Distraught, I steeled myself for the bad news. The patient doctor then gently explained the ins and outs of cat ownership and feline sexuality. He was a she, afterall, and she was in heat. Garfield wasn't in agony...she just wanted to, well, you know.
Dang. Another girl.

Poor Dawson. He doesn't even have a clue what we girls are talking about half the time. We did force him to watch a movie with us last week. We popped popcorn, snuggled up in fluffy quilts on my waterbed, and watched, "How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days." The girls and I loved that movie and gushed about its star, southern candy Matthew McConaughey.

At the end, Dawson stormed back to his cave, er....bedroom, muttering something about needing blood and body counts.

Wait a minute. Didn't the fish try hiding in his cave, too?