Why can't I stop talking like this???

 I hate that I do this. But I can’t seem to make myself stop. And I do try.
 
Of what am I speaking?
 
Allow me to set the stage. The situation goes something like this. I’m going to visit a friend. The friend informs me that they have a large dog, or a new kitten, or a puppy, or an old tabby. They say that they just wanted to let me know in case I have any issues. Allergies. Fears. Hair triggers set by a pet who ran away one dark night and never returned and took a chew toy that had been in the family for generations. I inform the friend that I am all for all pets. Things are going to be fine.
 
But it’s not. It’s not fine at all.
 
The moment I’m confronted with some creature covered in fur, it happens. It’s my “Who’s so cute?” voice. My back teeth clench, my voice shifts to the back of my throat, it lowers half an octave, and I’m like a loving matriarch addressing an adorable but naughty child.
 
“Who’s such a good puppy?”
“Who’s such a fluffy kitten?”
“Oh, look what a cute bunny you are.”
(Age is irrelevant. To me, all animals are the baby versions of themselves.)
 
And I repeat myself, asking the same inane question over and over, never tiring of the fact that I don’t get an answer. It all makes me look and feel like an idiot. But does that stop me?
 
Not yet, it hasn’t.
 
For what it’s worth, I do not do this with small (or large) children. I’ve always spoken to children in my normal tone of voice. The rationale is that it’s for their own good. If I speak to a child in my adult-ish tone of voice, it encourages the child to evolve into a fully formed adult. An adult who takes responsibility for themselves, doesn’t whine, or become a complete idiot around anything covered in fur. (And no, back hair doesn’t count.)
 
In truth, I’d never even noticed how much I engage in silly animal talk until I made fun of it in my most recent book. It’s on page 185, to be exact. (This is not a spoiler alert.) A group of women are standing around a kitten who’s looking at them through the windshield of an RV. The women are all cooing to and for the ball of fluff. Here now, an excerpt:
 
   One woman, speaking in a baby-talk voice, squeaked, “Look how cute you are. Look how cute!”
 
   Another woman sounded cartoon-like as she attempted speaking cat-speak. “Meow, meow? Meow, meow, meow?”
 
   A third woman was literally speaking for the cat. “I’m so beautiful. Yes, I am.”
 
As I wrote this I thought, what fools they are. Then, that same night, I went to a friend’s house to watch a ballgame. This friend has two cats, Musso and Frank. If you know, you know. (I hate the initialized version of that. And yes, hate is a strong word. And I mean it. Fight me.) While Musso is rarely seen, Frank is more than happy show up so you can scratch his head—as long as you do it correctly.
 
There we were watching the game, Frank appears. I clench my jaw and it begins. “Look who’s so handsome! Yes. Yes, you are handsome.” And I said it over and over.
 
I don’t even utter anything original. I spoon out the same blather to any animal I happen to pass. And to answer your question, yes, I’ve done it to Mr. Parker as well. In my defense, he is so handsome. Especially when he edits this newsletter. [Editor’s note: Oh, dear god.]
 
I remember once seeing a single-frame cartoon of dogs in heaven. It may have been The Far Side, but I’m not positive. One dog says to the others, “I never did find out who the good boy was.” So I know, it’s not just me. Far from it.
 
Recently, we were visiting friends (they know who they are) who not only speak to their dog in cute puppy voices, they speak for their dog. Interestingly, the cute puppy voice she uses is low pitched, and the voice he uses is high. This couple will have entire conversations with each other speaking on behalf of their dog.
 
“Daddy, I was so good in the park today. Yes I was. You should give me a ‘tweet.’” (See also: baby talk for “treat.”)
“Yes. I think I deserve two ‘tweets.’”
“Are we all going to walk? It’s walk time. I can come with you on your walk.”
 
So you know, these are two very bright, well educated adults who met while working in the more erudite side of the entertainment business, and together have raised two intelligent children (now adults as well) and have had careers of substance.
 
So why? Why do so many of us find it virtually impossible to speak to animals from the point of view of the grown adult humans we are? Why does the sight of anything cute and fluffy turn us into the people we’d never allow into a boardroom? Why do we make up songs that not even children would repeat? And why do we say things like, “Oooh, I could eat you up!”? We don’t mean it. (I hope.)
 
One theory: People crave the total abandon of these joyful interactions with a lower creature who (we assume) only wants to love us and be loved by us. (Well, maybe not cats. They know they’re more intelligent than we are.) Maybe these moments are a chance to gush and express our love with no fear of rejection. And if we are rejected, we can chalk it up to a creature who’s just nervous and who, at some point, will no doubt circle back for love. It’s never because we aren’t enough. Or we’re too much. Or we eat too loudly.
 
Another theory: Humans are attracted to small things. Does that animal look like we can pick it up? Great. I’m picking it up and holding it close. It’s why grown adults enjoy doll houses. It’s why little people walk in fear of being picked up. (It happens.) It’s why the size 6 shoes on display in the store look so cute. But when they come out from the back in my required size 10, I might as well just put my feet into the boxes and shuffle on home.
 
Next theory: Small animals and babies have big eyes in relation to the rest of their heads. Big eyes are like black holes. Once we venture close enough, we get sucked into their gravitational vortex and are powerless to break free. The bigger the eyes, the greater the vortex they create.
 
Last theory: Small and/or fluffy is just so effing cute. Fact.
 
If you have another theory, I’d love to hear it. If it’s truly enlightening, I will most certainly share it with the class.
 
That’s all for now. I’m going to go hug Mr. Parker (who is now smaller than when I met him).
 
“Who’s such a cute husband. Who’s the cutest husband?”
 
Stay Careful-ish,
 
Honey Parker