Number Two Daughter, my youngest, is graduating from high school and leaving for a summer in Oregon, then college, in less than a month. I will miss her, when I'm not, you know, dancing naked around the house (yeah, sorry for the imagery), chanting, "Mine! Mine! All mine! That room? Mine! And how about that one? Also—and I cannot stress this enough—mine!"

Twenty or so years ago, I had a choice: raise children or raise chinchillas. On this the occasion of my parental duties ending (other than, you know, paying for two nearly-adult kids' whole entire lives), my nest emptying (and I hope you understand: I do not actually live in a nest, because try to get fire insurance on something made of leaves and twigs), I feel I have to face facts: I made the wrong choice.

                Sure, raising children and raising chinchillas might seem quite similar; both nouns, for example, start with the same three letters. Both involve providing housing and nourishment to creatures who eat constantly and poop incontinently. In neither case is there the slightest chance of intelligent conversation. (This is why I believe that abortion should be legal until the second graduate degree.) But the fact is, on a point by point comparison, raising chinchillas wins hands down. Well, paws down, but you get the point.

                Consider: when you're done raising chinchillas, you can—indeed, are expected to—skin them and sell their pelts. The Department of Children and Family Services has made it quite clear to me that under no circumstances should I think about doing the same with my children. (Also, most children have hardly any pelts to speak of, another factor in favor of chinchillas, especially on a cold winter night in Chicago.) Sure, DCFS's attitude is both irrational and anti-commerce, but you can't fight City Hall. Well, you can, but it won't fight back and when you hit it, you will hurt your hand.

                (And should any PETA people be preparing to remonstrate with me about how fur is murder, I'm afraid my only reply is the answer I gave the PETA guy who was kind enough to turn away momentarily from harassing tottering old ladies outside the Opera House as I passed by to demand of me my feelings about fur: "Fur?" I replied, happy to have the answer ready to hand, "That's the package meat comes in!")

                On the poop issue: sure, children do eventually stop shitting just wherever their little hearts desire, and can be trained to at least aim for the toilet, but honestly, before that training kicks in, the sheer volume of shit that comes out of these little pooh-factories is astonishing. Contrast that with the neat little pellets of excreta produced by chinchillas (I imagine, for, honesty compels me to note, I've never actually been within 10 feet of a chinchilla), who can, unlike children, be induced to crap on a newspaper. Winner: chinchillas, again. Loser: the newspaper. (As usual.)

                I must admit there is one respect in which raising children is—in theory, at any rate—superior to raising chinchillas. I have informed my children that I will expect them to support me in my old age in the fashion to which I plan to become accustomed: in a phrase, bizarre and exaggerated extravagance. (What's wrong with foie gras baths? I demand. Not a thing, I answer myself, as I so often do. For one thing, mmmmm, liver-y.) I say "in theory," because Number One Daughter currently majors in Latin, a major which, should ancient Rome ever again become an economic powerhouse, will no doubt be quite lucrative.  (I ask you, what has become of the good old American value of going to college to make money?) (Of course, I majored in English, but that was only because I already spoke it.) (And I had a practical backup major: philosophy.) Christ, I guess I'd better start clipping Nine Lives recipes now.

                It's too late for me, but as I do in my unpublished guide to the joys and pitfalls of raising children (entitled, Children Suck; Raise Chinchillas), I can only urge you, if you're considering having children, think chinchillas instead. The children are indeed our future, and we are all going to die. Frankly, I'm surprised no one has put these two facts together before.

                And just in case my youngest reads this—on the off chance that I, say, send her the link, tie her to a chair and clip her eyelids open, Clockwork Orange-style, in front of the computer: have a good life, kid. I've done what I could for you, given my limitations, and I love you and will miss you. Not enough not to put a hot tub in your room, but lots nonetheless.