There's been some discussion amongst my circle of blogfriends (specifically here and here) about overprotective parenting. I don't have a strong opinion on the subject and don't think I'm qualified, without kids, to say much about it anyway. But it has made me consider where I would fall, if I were a mother. Probably the way I treat my cats is a pretty good indicator of the type of parent I would be, which is to say a total overprotective pushover.

There's plenty of evidence of this throughout my blog. But just to prove the point...

I take them outside on harnesses. Because I fear for their safety too much to let them roam alone, but I also feel guilty about depriving them from experiencing the great outdoors. So I put all three cats in harnesses with leashes and let them play in the backyard. Supervised, mind you. Because a bird of prey could swoop down and snatch one up at any moment. (No really. I read that somewhere.) Or a dog could run over and attack them. And let's not forget Grady... Plus, they always end up getting wound around things and each other and need untangling. It would actually be much simpler if I just took one out at a time, but I always take all three because I want to be fair and equitable. I cannot take sad pathetic feline faces staring out at me through the window.

I only give them filtered water to drink. Sure, if they were strays they'd drink out of muddy streams and mosquito-infested gutters. But luckily for them, they are my babies. And my babies deserve Brita.

I take them to the vet. A lot. Rob is convinced the main purpose of the vet is to treat neurotic pet owners, not any physical ailment of the pet itself. This is a notion at which I scoff, although he may have a point. I recently took Bridget to the vet because I was very concerned she had been losing weight. I was certain it was either hyperthyroidism or diabetes. They ran a bunch of tests, and everything came back fine. The vet's $200 diagnosis was that perhaps I should just feed her more.

There are strict safety rules in our house about not leaving various items (ribbon, twist-ties, Q-tips) lying about or within feline reach. This morning I asked Rob to put away a plastic bag that was on the floor because one of the cats might play in it and suffocate. (No really. It could happen.) I have an eye like a hawk for this sort of stuff. And I admit to taking this too far at other people's houses - I cannot resist pointing out to people the cat dangers that are lurking in their homes. I have lectured my own mother, who successfully raised two healthy children, about a piece of string I found on her living room floor. Didn't she realize if her cat swallowed that it could cut through the intestines?! I realize how completely annoying this must be, but I am compelled. I mean, it takes a village, right?

I leave very detailed cat-care instructions when we go on a trip. You would think our catsitters were caring for an invalid on life support. But there is a lot to know! Bridget has special food, and Maylee has to be fed first or she gets confused, and Simon will eat Bridget's food if he's not supervised. It is very complicated, people. And this is simple compared to the usual feeding system! My instructions don't even mention the after-school snack I give the cats every day when I come home from work.

Clearly, I'm a wee bit overprotective. I acknowledge this. And I could list a hundred ways in which I'm also a complete pushover. Like the kitchen cabinet that I almost relinquished to Simon recently because he came to love sitting in it so much while all the doors were off during the renovation. When we went to put the doors back on, I seriously considered leaving them off that cabinet and putting a cat bed in there instead of the stuff that is supposed to be stored there. Because that's his new special place! How cruel to take that away from him! But in the end, I did reclaim the cabinet. (At least for now.) So see? I'm normal.