Today I was filling out a perfectly innocent travel form for a brand-new client. Name? Check. Date of birth? Check. Gender? Easy peasy—F, for female. Obviously.

But then—as it does more often than I care to admit—my brain took a sharp left turn.

You see, back in my vet-med days, when we’d spay a female animal, we didn’t just send her home with a cone of shame and a sassy attitude. No sir. We gave her a tiny tattoo on her belly. Just a little green line so if she ever wandered off—or ended up as a stray—some poor vet tech wouldn’t slice her open just to find out she was already “fixed.”

And now, here I am thinking: why don’t we do this for humans?

I mean seriously… you’re out there in the wild (aka Applebee’s on half-price appetizer night), looking for wife number four or husband number six, and there’s just no way to tell.

Like, do you casually slide your mozzarella stick to the side and ask:

“Hey girl hey… are you fixed? ‘Cause I ain’t tryin’ to be nobody’s baby daddy.”

Or maybe:

“Listen, I want kids. Are your pipes still plumbed, or are we just wasting time here?”

See what I mean? Confusing. Inefficient. One awkward night away from needing a flow chart.

Meanwhile, dogs got it figured out. No fuzzy grapes? Neutered. Tattoo on the belly? Spayed. Boom. Instant clarity. The animal kingdom is out here making better life decisions than half the folks on dating apps.

Anyway, my brain moved on to something equally ridiculous right after that (probably involving cheese or serial killers), but I figured I’d share that little gem with y’all. Just a glimpse into what it’s like living in this wonderfully unhinged head of mine.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got travel quotes to send, laundry to pretend I don’t see, and some unsuspecting soul to explain that “yes, all-inclusive means alcohol too.”

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