Hey gentlemen! It’s time for Mother’s Day again

By Steve Estes

Strictly Drivel by Steve Estes

Gentlemen, this is not the yearly reminder that Valentine’s Day is approaching. If you didn’t remember that one, you’re already lost for the year, so the next major significant other holiday that rolls around on Sunday matters not to you.

Sunday is Mother’s Day.

When we think of Mother’s Day, we all probably think of our Mothers, or the person who played that role in our lives.

But the times they have changed.

Mother’s Day today, thanks to Madison Avenue, means any female that can claim ownership to anything she must take care of.

Sorry ladies. I know that sounds kind of crass, but we are products of our environment, and today’s environment is heavily laden with reminders that you’re owed something for feeding the fish, cleaning the gerbil cage, changing the bird cage, feeding the dog, not killing the cat, watering the plants or whatever it may be that you take on the responsibility to take care of.

I actually listened to an acquaintance of ours last year go on for over an hour on why she, childless and destined to always be, should get Mother’s Day gifts because she took care of the dogs and the cats and they were her kids.

OK. So let the dogs and cats buy you a Mother’s Day gift. Or let them lick you and scratch you.

Sorry. Just couldn’t resist that one.

Being male, however, we know that these types of things are more than just subtle hints. We understand them as commandments that thou shalt not violate.

So it set my rather strange brain to thinking about the possibilities if dogs and cats, gerbils, fish, birds or perhaps plants, could actually go shopping for gifts for the person who serves as caretaker for them.

Of course, while innately intelligent, none of these animals function much above the first stage of the Hierarchy of Needs, so by default their gift choices would probably be somewhat limited to the things you need to do the job for them.

Of course, many ladies right about now are saying the same thing about the men in their lives, and once you get right down to it, I’m not sure we function that much beyond the first stage of the Hierarchy of Need.

Food, clothing, shelter, water. That pretty much covers the initial needs level unless you get into the more esoteric thoughts of air and gravity. But I digress.

You realize the clothing thing was for the guys, not the animals? Fido really doesn’t need a hand-knitted sweater to keep his fur warm, and he sure doesn’t need that full-length body suit to keep warm the things you took from him as a puppy.

Oh, sorry. I digress yet again.

So if I were a dog, what would I want my human Mother to have?

She could use a thermal blanket to keep me warm at night from that blasted air conditioning.

She could use a bigger set of doggy bowls, because there are times I walk away from the dinner floor still hungry. In fact, I think she needs two more dinner bowls, one made of bacon….slow down big fella, slow down.

If I were a cat (I’d commit suicide but that’s another story) I’d probably think Mom really needs a better scratching post than the leg of the couch or the corner of the kitchen table. They’re getting old, used and worn out.

Or perhaps she’d like a really huge ball of yarn that we could scatter across the entire house together, or wait, better yet, how about a big, big, big ball of catnip so we could take some crazy lazy afternoon trips together where we’d bounce off the furniture, climb the curtains, tip over the canisters and slide across the table, removing all the place settings for dinner.

If I were the family gerbil….a smaller maze.

I don’t want to have to work that hard for the food. Put the food in close, that way I can eat more, and more often, and if I want the exercise, I can trot through the maze.

In short, I want to be treated like that hairy-faced human with the reclining chair next to the refrigerator.

As a fish, get Mom a bigger tank. More room to defecate, more time between scary water change-outs and perhaps we can make a little room between us and that abrasive diver dude who keeps spitting air into my gills whenever I pass overhead.

As a plant, the choice is easy. Cut more windows. More light. Give me sunlight.

Oh and some fancy imported nutrient water would be nice. Perhaps I’d learn to grow in something other than a haphazard fashion with a little culturing, don’t’ ya know.

But, since plants and animals don’t have bank accounts (in most normal households) and don’t have access to shop online, it will be up to us—guys—to make sure Momma gets her something for Mother’s Day.

It can be simple. A card. Candy. Flowers.

But it can’t be at 9 p.m. on Sunday night while unloading the boat from the afternoon/evening fishing trip with the buddies, only one of whom remembered that Sunday is Mother’s Day and tipped off the rest of you loser lunatics, sending you into hyper panic mode.

This is your warning.

Take heed.

Dark times await.

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