The Pet Party

On Friday night at 6:01pm, my doorbell rang. I opened the door to find a pack of stray animals on my doorstep. Each was wearing a sparkly party dress and was carrying a wrapped present in one hand and a stuffed animal in the other. When the group of 8 saw me, they began to chant "Pet Party! Pet Party!" in unison.

I quickly closed the door before the animals could barge their way in. My five-turning-six-year-old daughter, however, felt sorry for the abandoned critters and let them all in when I wasn't looking.

It took the strays--my daughter now among them--exactly 2 minutes to complete the craft that was supposed to take 20. Much to my dismay, no one was interested in rolling out the clay dog tags that they had just made and making them again.

"Let's take your pretend pets to the vet!" I suggested, pointing to a table covered with an assortment of toy stethoscopes and medical supplies donated by my OB-GYN.


"Is that a pap smear swab?" asked the mother of one of the strays.

I assured the woman that the object that her daughter had just removed from a plastic wrapper and was shoving down the windpipe of a faux golden retriever was just an extra large Q-tip.

As the mom breathed a sigh of relief, I started to perspire. My husband was late returning with the pizza and some of the animals were beginning to claw at the refrigerator.

I needn't have worried so much because half of the pack turned out to be vegans who didn't eat meat or cheese products; the other half didn't like pizza.

"Do you have any chicken fingers?" asked a friendly Dashound.
I was informed that Captain Gorton's fish sticks would also be acceptable.

"This is a pet party," I reminded her. "All we have is dog food." I pointed to two plastic dog bowls on the counter that were filled respectively with bone-shaped graham crackers and Cocoa Puffs.

After throwing 8 slices of pizza into the trash, I led the party guests into the basement, where my neighbor was waiting with her competition show dog and the dog's agility course.

"Do you want..." Before my neighbor could finish her sentence, the pack dove headfirst into the dog tunnel.

My neighbor and I cheered the pets on. "Faster! Faster!" we screamed.
The mom who stayed to supervise her pet was thrilled when her daughter emerged from the tunnel covered in leaves and dog hair.

After all of the animals were exercised, I took them back upstairs for some cupcake tops and rainbow sherbet. One pet (who shall remain nameless) had a difficult time determining where the frosting ended and the birthday candles began.

"That's totally gross," I hissed when I ordered her to spit the candle stubs into a napkin.

Thankfully, all of the animal rescue groups came to retrieve their lost pets at the designated time. The mom who stayed for the party thanked me profusely for the plastic dog bowl that we handed out as party favors. She especially appreciated me suggesting to her daughter that the dish would make a nice cereal bowl.

After all the animals left, I was left with just my pet, who wanted to know why all of her friends couldn't spend the night after the party.

For once, the answer came easy. "I don't have enough crates, silly!"

The Party Pooper

Kellen and Cortlen don't turn 5 for a few more weeks, but given the unpredictability of pregnancy, I figured that I had better throw my boys a birthday party now, or else they might not get one at all.

Initially my plan was to have a mid-week, mid-day "lunch party" and invite all of the kids from the boys' preschool class. That plan abruptly changed when I learned that there were 18 kids in the class. With the most logical and, in our case, only pool of party guests eliminated in one foul swoop, I was left with no other choice than to invite total strangers.

Fortunately, there were a satisfactory number of them at the bus stop. The lucky recipients of the invitations included a kindergartner who I suspect is on Speed and the three year-old younger brother of a boy who owns a very impressive collection of robots (or so I hear). If either of our 2 guests were no-shows, my plan was to fill the empty chairs with my neighbor's greyhound, or her cage of pet rats. Fortunately, the two strangers showed up.

The party got off to a good start when Cortlen answered the door and asked "Who are you?" to the boy standing in front of him.
"Who are YOU?" the boy asked back.

Lunch was filled with equally awkward moments.
"Hey, what's your name," asked Kellen, "Do you want another piece of pizza?"

Fortunately for all, the awkwardness was short lived. Nothing unites complete strangers like food and an older sister who can't stand not being the center of attention. I suspected that I might have a slight problem on my hands when I had to forcibly pry Camber out of one of the two dining room chairs adorned with a bouquet of balloons and a large placard that read "Birthday Boy."

"This is your first and last warning," I told her in the hallway.
When I brought in the drinks, she was standing on her chair. "Let's pretend that it's MY birthday," she told the party guests.
"You can pretend that it's your birthday in your bedroom," I said.

After lunch, Camber emerged from her room penitent and full of promises to clean up her act. Sadly, those promises proved to be empty. During game time, she pushed her way to the front of the limbo line, refused to hand over the plastic bat (used to hit the pinata) when her turn was over, and "took a nap" in front of the soccer net as the party guests were trying to shoot goals. As I dragged her away from the net, I broke both of her legs (or so she claimed) and she screamed, "This party is boring anyway! I'm having no fun!"

After depositing my daughter inside the garage and then closing the garage door, I apologized to the strangers (and the strangers' mothers) for the beast who was now peering at us through the dining room windows. I felt terrible about how things were turning out and was pretty much convinced by that point that the strangers standing on my driveway were going to do everything in their power to remain strangers to our family after the party was over.

Much to my shock and surprise, neither the birthday boys nor the party guests saw things the same way.
"This is the best birthday party ever," said the boy on Speed.
"That girl sure is angry," said the three year-old, clapping his hands.
"Can I lay in front of the soccer net and have people kick balls at me?" asked Kellen.

That's when I saw Camber's hidden career potential as a professional party pooper. I wonder what would be less tacky and more lucrative: renting her out by the hour, or the party?