My four-year-old daughter Bridget’s favorite toy ever is “Catfish,” a stuffed-animal Siamese cat with a fish drawing on its collar.
And though she loves him, he’s clearly her fall guy. Messy room, dirty bed, broken toys… she’s been insisting Catfish orchestrated all these petty toddler crimes and more.
He’s been so naughty, in fact, we finally had to tell her he’d have to live outside her room if we found any more crayon drawings on the wall.
Which prompted Bridget to launch a PR campaign on his behalf. Catfish is reformed! Catfish has seen the light! Catfish has completely turned himself around, which she was trying to explain to big sister Brontë one day in the car…
(In the backseat)
Bridget: So, Catfish acting better and she not a bad cat anymore.
Brontë: WAIT… wait… wait. Is Catfish a BOY or GIRL?
Bridget: Her a girl.
Brontë: Ohmygod. I thought she was a *boy.* I’ve been calling her a boy this WHOLE time…
Bridget: Yeah, her a girl.
Brontë: This is SO embarrassing. Do you think maybe that’s why she was peeing your bed?
Bridget: That disgusting.
Brontë: When we get home, can you call Catfish so I can apologize for calling her a boy?
Bridget: Okay. She like that.
(We get home and Brontë and Bridget start walking down the hall, holding hands.)
Brontë: We’ll see you in a bit, mom. We need to go have an important talk.