I live in a house of men. I'm married to a man, and we have three boys together, who are all now man-sized. A slew of their friends, pals, acquaintances, and buddies revolve through our life and home.
All pets over the years have been male as well: the bearded dragon, the short-lived hamster, the majestic Rottweiler. Even the cat turned out to be boy.
The cat was a particularly insistent stray, and although my husband is violently allergic to cats, and we tried to shoo it away, then give it away, it wasn’t going anywhere. People familiar enough with cat genitalia pronounced the cat a girl, and we gave her a girlie name, “Summer”.
And since she was a stray, I drove Summer to the vet to be spayed. The vet called, confused, as I was driving away from the drop off.
“Are you the one who brought in the stray cat to be spayed?”
“Yep!” I said, proud about assuming this civic responsibility for someone else’s abandoned pet. (I knew rabies shots and city licenses would follow, and I was willing to take care of those things too.)
“Yeah, that’s a neutered male,” the vet explained.
“Well of course it is.” I turned the car around.
We renamed the cat Boomer, because it sounded a little like Summer, the name s/he had gotten used to, and because it was short for Boomerang, since no matter how many times we threw him out, he came back. I remain the only female in the house.
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