Oh Shit I Just Realized…

26 Feb

When we first got married, my wife and I decided to get a dog. Two years later, we decided that the dog needed a dog friend. Then five years later, we decided to have a baby. This progression of decision-making has all but ensured that our son will have two separate, horrifying traumatic losses before he is 8 years old. Nice going dad, you dick.

Our baby will be born sometime in May 2012. Rambo and Lucky, two soft, cuddly, furry animals will afford him hours of play, wet sloppy kisses, falling asleep together on the floor, and warm his innocent little heart, only to get old, smelly, and drop dead at the height of his relationship with them, leading to nightmares, sob attacks, and early onset of depression, or at least a premature existential stoicism usually reserved for marine veterans and that little boy from the Walking Dead.

"He did the right thing, shooting her like that. I would have done that too."

In order to avoid this situation, I suspect my best course of action will be to keep the animals in the house just long enough for him to learn the word “doggy” and then swiftly dispatch them, painlessly, before he can possibly develop any attachment to them.

Alternatively, I can attempt to educate him on the “circle of Life” with hours of repetitive, equally traumatizing viewings of The Lion King, The Neverending Story, and Old Yeller. My god, which is worse?

"ARTAAAAAX NOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

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