When Mummy is the Pet Party Pooper

The begging started a few weeks ago.

"Can we have a dog?" asks the 11-year-old in our house. "Do you love me? Can we have a cat?"

The answer is always no, but the Emotionally Manipulative Force is strong in this one.

Lucien stays up all night watching cute cat videos on YouTube, then bats his eyelashes at me. "Please, please, please," he wheedles winsomely. "Why not?"

"I'm allergic to cats," I say flatly.

Of all the weird stuff I have told my kids, this one ranks rather high. I am, for example, definitely allergic to long-haired guinea pigs. An ex-boyfriend insisted on keeping two in his bedroom; when my severe asthma attacks each time I stayed over did not persuade him to move them out immediately, I should have known that he liked them better than he did me.

But short-haired cats I have tolerated fairly well. I had a cat for a brief period in my early 20s, and don't mind caring for stray kittens for a few days.

Still, I am highly aware that I am not cut out to be responsible for another living thing. I sleep erratic hours and like to travel at the drop of a hat (although the pandemic has put paid to that). I am always abandoning hobbies and projects for newer, shinier pursuits. I am extremely territorial about my bed. In fact, I often wonder if I'm capable of keeping two human children alive without my husband, their superbly hands-on dad.

Said husband has not been helping in my efforts to talk the kid out of a cat. I suspect he is going through early-onset Empty Nest Syndrome. During the school holidays, when the kids went to vacation at the grandparents', he moped around the house, hugging our sons' abandoned soft toys and forwarding me cat videos on Instagram. Occasionally, he moots getting a cat so he will have another baby to look after.

The answer is always no, but the Restless Old Uncle Vibe in this one is strong.

With two menfolk yearning for a pet, I am guilt-tripped into doing an internal audit of our family's capacity to take on a new member.

"Who's going to take care of the cat?" I ask.

"Me, me," says Lucien, raising his hand.

"Who will clean up after it?"

"Me, lor," pipes up Restless Old Uncle morosely. I believe him - he does all the housework.

"What if it gets into my room and shreds my books? Scratches my piano?"

Brisk consultation between father and son. "We'll install a child-proof gate and restrict it downstairs", was their proposed solution.

"But our living room is only that big. The poor cat will have very little space to roam," I rebut.

Lucien visually assesses our available space and insists it is adequate for a frisky feline. I express my scepticism. End of conversation.

The elder son, now 14, used to ask for a Space Pig - a fantastic flying animal I made up for bedtime stories. It was tough telling him that I'd fibbed about that one. Periodically, he would ask if we could get a dog - a request that went away after encountering my Wall of No. My stock response was I already had two pets - him and his brother.

I feel slightly bad that I am the party pooper when it comes to family pets. Caring for an animal, some may tell you, helps children learn responsibility, kindness and selflessness. But it also seems selfish to get a pet just to instil values in one's offspring. A living thing is not an educational tool.

Perhaps the more relevant lesson I'm teaching the kids here is that, in life, you can't always get what you want.

Animal welfare organisations have in the past raised awareness of the huge number of pets abandoned after Christmas - as buyers and recipients realise that pet ownership is tougher than they bargained for.

This year, according to a Dec 26, 2020 report in The Daily Post in Britain, animal shelters in Wales are bracing themselves for a surge in abandoned pets bought during lockdown by people who have not thought through whether they can care for them and afford their upkeep beyond the pandemic.

Call it fear of commitment. But, really, for someone who has spent her childhood trying but not entirely succeeding at rearing hamsters, goldfish and turtles, acknowledging that she is not Pet Parent Material is the decent thing to do.

Like a zombie that will not die, however, the Cat Question keeps coming back.

Finally, after countless circular arguments which always end in me saying no, the husband takes us to a cat cafe on Boxing Day.

For $16 a person (inclusive of one drink), we get to spend two hours stroking and petting all 19 cats there. Lucien is thrilled, gingerly touching the backs of snoozing tabbies and feeding them kibble.

I spend most of my time with a petite orange Singapura cat named Ginny. Soon, I am cooing to her like a baby - "Who's a good kitty? Who wants to take a selfie?" - while she tolerates me rubbing her head and messing up her neat fur. Darn it, I think - I am not immune to their charm. Cute overload, rather than allergies, was making my eyes tear up.

Eventually, they throw us out at closing time.

"Every time you want to see cats, we'll come here, okay?" my husband tells an enraptured Lucien. The boy agrees, although he gives me a "don't rub it in" look. I wisely shut my mouth.

There are plenty of alternative ways to let one's kids interact with domestic animals. Helping to walk a neighbour's dog is one; cat-sitting for a friend is another. Volunteering with animal welfare organisations is another opportunity to find out if you're really up to the task of stewardship.

After our cat cafe outing, we discuss applying to foster a cat, going through the required interview and house-visit process. The menfolk in our family know that this is my effort to meet them halfway, even though I am still against the idea.

Who knows? I am bent on not being a Pet Parent, but once the children are grown, move out and get their own cats, I might love being a Pet Grandma.