Of Parents and Pawrents

Lately, I’ve had a strange compulsion to name something. Strange doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling. Everytime I see a dog or even just a picture of canine, I fantasise at owning one. I even go as far as thinking of names to name my pet. If I get a black dog, I’d name him Lucifur, or Lucyfur for her. If I get a golden retriever, I’d name her Mariah Carey, Paris Hilton, or Barbie, blonde bombshells with lots of hair but little between the ears. And if it were male, then Ryan Gosling, Chris Hemsworth, or Mr Hiddleston. I hope my pet wouldn’t suffer PTSD.

Then again, I get emotional whenever I see a baby. Perhaps my paternal instincts are acting up, which is the only plausible explanation for the baby names that I play around with in my head. Nevertheless, I’m keenly aware of my inability to even care for myself, much less look after a pet or raise a child. Daniel has always yearned to have a child, and I’ve always known that he’d be a good father.

However, he puts me on a pedestal and looks after me very well. I’m his priority, and I’m very happy with my pole position. God forbid anyone or anything that competes with me for his attention. He says that I’m all he has in the world, and as selfish as it sounds, I’m happy to busk in his love and attention.

Nevertheless, I want him to live life to the fullest and enjoy the rest of his time. Should I be the one to first bid farewell, he mustn’t despair. And there’s no rush, I want him to take his time. I promised to wait for him.