Getting a pet

A few months ago Dave’s mom offered to take Julia for the night and after we ditched her and ran dropped her off we took Oliver out for dinner. We’d never had dinner out with just him and the three of us had a blast – he charmed the pants off our waitress and in doing so, scored us unlimited baskets of these buttery, calorie-laden cheese buns that come before the main course. We stuffed ourselves silly, waddled to the car and headed home.

It was a beautiful evening; we rolled the windows down and turned the tunes up, and as we were driving we passed a rather obese guy zipping along the shoulder of the road on a four-wheeler. With more class and couth than ever before, Dave leaned out the window and shouted, “Whassup, fattie?” at the top of his lungs. The guy had a helmet on and (thankfully) didn’t hear him, but a certain two-year-old boy in the backseat did. Ever since then, whenever Oliver sees someone on a motorcycle or any sort of all-terrain vehicle he shouts things like, “Whassup, fattie?”

or “That’s a fattie, Mummy! Right dere!”

or “Mummy! Look! A fattie!”

The pride, it swells from me. God help me if I get pulled over by a cop on a motorcycle and my son is in the backseat.

Lately Dave and I have been talking about getting a pet. He wants a dog and I’d like a cat so the Family Pet Conversations have somewhat stalled, but we got talking the other night while lying in bed about the breed of dog we’d get if we ever did get one. We decided on a Boxer and immediately started discussing names, shooting a few back and forth – Bambi, Chopper, Cooper (after Alice) – before Dave sucked in his breath sharply, gripped my hand and announced he’d come up with the perfect name, a name the whole family would love: Fattie.

“We can’t name a dog Fattie,” I laughed. “We’d sound like idiots if it got lost. ‘Here, Fattie! Faaaatie!’”

Dave was laughing so hard he was struggling to breathe. “Yes! It’s perfect!” he managed to choke out, and by that time I was laughing so hard I was practically in tears. We lay there for a good ten minutes saying things like, “Julia, would you like to take Fattie for a walk?”, “I think Fattie needs to go outside for a poop” and “Nobody minds it when I bring my Fattie to the party” until we were in complete hysterics.

“Dave,” I said after I’d regained composure. “We cannot name a dog Fattie. It’s just not right.”

“Look who’s talking,” he retorted. “You’re the one who had a cat named Anus. We can too have a dog named Fattie.”

Okay, so he’s got a point – I did have a cat named Anus, but that wasn’t her real, given name – it’s just what me and my friends started calling her one night and well, it stuck. So what if it stuck for fifteen years? That was then, this is now and I’m thinking that our first family pet should be named something other than Fattie.

So…whose side are you on?

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