Greg's made it clear that he wants to adopt someday. Adopt a kid. A human child, capable of psychological damage and late-night hunger. He's mentioned it many times, while cradling his hypothetical ovaries and whining about his biological dad-clock.
"But we're behind on our life plan," I tell him when he does this. Which makes him laugh because he knows damn well that only one of us is capable of planning more than 10 seconds in advance, and that person isn't me. "It would be gross negligence for us to buy a kid anytime soon."
"Adopt. You don't buy a kid."
"Right." And when he does his dad-clock thing, I always--always--say this: "Look. First, we get a dog. If we can keep a dog alive for a year or so, then we'll think about getting a kid."
So we're getting a dog. Apparently we're at a point in our lives where this dog thing is feasible. We can feed ourselves on a regular basis now, so we can also take on the added responsibility of pet-feeding. I'd feel better with a hamster or goldfish, something to work up from, but, no. It's gonna be a dog, right off. No starter-set.
And not only is it a dog--it's a wiener dog. A Dachshund. A type of dog I've never liked because they look like lubed-up lamb skin condoms with legs and a reservoir tip. But Greg, and his ovaries, grew up with a Dachshund, and often grows misty-eyed when asked about little Boots, and suddenly a friend has a Dachshund she needs to give away, and I would be an evil asshole if I said no to our adoption. Of the dog.
But then there's the implied adoption of a kid. See? It's all part of Greg's life-plan. If I say no to the dog, I'm saying no to future children, and that's a rabbit hole I'm not prepared to fall into, even though I'd much prefer a rabbit to a dog or a kid.
So tomorrow, Greg is going downtown to meet with the young woman who needs to give up her dog, and he's gonna meet the Dachshund too, and if everyone likes everyone else--if the young woman feels that Greg and the Dachshund get along--he'll be bringing back that dog, and we'll be responsible for everything about that dog's life. We'll have to feed it, and walk it, and play with it, and love it, and protect it, shelter it, possibly clothe it since Greg strikes me as that type of dog owner who needs to put cute tiny dog-sized sweaters on his animals, and possibly tiny dog-sized shoes.
If we adopt this dog, and the dog lives through the winter, then there'll be a kid in our future. A kid we'll also have to protect and love and feed and dress and minimize psychological damage and, unlike the dog, raise to the point of independence.
I've had two plants since I moved in with Greg. One is still alive. So I give both the dog and the potential kid a 50/50 chance of survival.
I mean, there aren't many benefits to being a gay couple, but one benefit is the lack of unplanned pregnancy. No surprise children. You can plan ahead, when you're gay, and that's a pretty good benefit. Perhaps it's why so many people hate us--they went the straight way, and get surprised all the time by kids popping out all over the place, and they're suddenly 40 years old, with 15 kids, a mortgage, college to pay for, orthodontist bills, grocery bills... hell, I'd hate gays too. Our unexpected miracle children truly are unexpected miracles, because who the hell ever expects a pregnant man?
But Greg wants to willingly wander into this land of responsibility, where we do normal things with normal progeny. No plan, really, just do, just get the dog, take care of it, find a kid, raise it. Meanwhile, I can barely remember to tie my shoes--and don't, really, since from March til early January I'm usually in flip-flops, so what's to tie? But from now on, I'll have to remember to take the dog out in the mornings, rain or snow or meteor strike. And later, I'll have to remember to keep little Greg or Marc junior/ette away from the stove.
I'll keep watering the plant, and watering the dog, and see how it goes.
Inappropriate sharing, incomprehensible ramblings, uncalled-for hostility: yup, it's a blog.
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