To my animals, I have always been “mom” or “mama.” I know that’s really gross, but that’s just how it is. B, however, has always been “B” to the animals, because while I am obviously not their biological mother, he did not choose to adopt them (or stand there while they were born on his floor) and so had maintained a sort of loving stepfather relationship. Except for the psychotic cat, who mostly views me as an obstacle between her and her chosen lifemate.
Anyway. We got the puppy, and the puppy was supposed to be his dog, and it was a mutual decision, so immediately B became “dad.” To the puppy. That’s just how it shook out.
So last night, Dork got himself into a very comfy groove in his couch (the groove itself was dug out by Sir Puppy) and wasn’t very interested in coming to bed with us. Normally, I can’t change rooms without Dork needing to follow, so while we were watching Lost in bed I kept going to see if maybe Dork was ready to come to bed. But his bed is just a pile of shredded blankets (because Sir Puppy ate his bed that he was so comfortable in for a whole week), so I can see why a mostly-shredded couch was still better.
And Dork’s getting on in years, so whenever his habits change like that it makes me nervous. B went out to check on him and got the same “um, no, not moving” reaction that I’d been getting, and as he got back in bed he said, “I said, ‘Dork, how come you don’t call me “dad”‘? And he said, ‘go away, you’re not my dad!’”
Dirty secret #2: we talk for the animals.