We all hope our children grow up to be socially and environmentally conscious individuals. They are the ones that will have to face the long-term effects of a questionable war and the real life impacts of, once mythical, global warming. 

Some parents even go great lengths to foster modern day iconoclastic values in the hopes that their little rapscallions will mature into freethinking radicals. 

Though my wife and I tend to lean toward the latter, I certainly did not expect that our son would begin to exhibit activist traits at such an early age. 

Recently, while on a midday commute from a Manhattan playground to our East Williamsburg apartment, my son involved me in one of those New York moments you witness while in close confines with a bunch of strangers as you barrel through New York Transit's subterranean system.

When the subway doors slid open, and we entered the unusually empty train, he saw her before I did. “Kyat,” he said looking up at me from his stroller, his eyes wide with excitement. 

At fifteen months old our son likes exercising his new very limited vocabulary. Sometimes, seemingly out of the blue, he’ll blurt a word just to remind you of his ever-expanding lexicon. 

On realizing that I didn’t react, mistaking this for one of those moments of arbitrary prattle, he repeated his imploration while pointing off into the distance. “Kyat!” 

By this time the commuters in our section of the subway car, drawn by baby magnetism, were all observing this bit of father/son interaction. 

“Where’s the cat?” I asked, giving Junior my full attention, while expecting him to simply be satisfied that I had regarded his vocal expression with some consideration. Instead, with about a dozen straphangers looking on, he pointed a chubby index toward an older woman seated on the fiberglass bench a few feet away. “Kyat!” he repeated. 

I looked in the direction he had fingered and realized that the woman – obviously an eccentric, with blue-tinted hair and jeweled vintage eyeglass frames – was wearing a mottled coat fashioned from a specie of animal that was obviously beautiful in its former life. 

At first I wasn’t quite sure how to respond with the numerous spectators contemplating my every move. ‘Cat’ being his favorite word, I usually try to gently correct him whenever he uses this misnomer to identify everyday animals. My most customary response to his tabby muffs and gentle meowing is “Yes, your right. That is a dog.” Followed by a phonetic pronunciation of the word.

This case was markedly different. Despite the fact that he was obviously incorrect, and although pointing at strangers is a social impropriety parents tend to curb, I seized this opportunity to encourage my son’s first inadvertent foray into animal activism. 

“Yes,” I responded in a loud reaffirming tone, “her coat is made from cat.” 

As the fellow passengers eyeballed us, obviously disappointed in my retort, and the fur wearer squirmed uncomfortably in her seat, my son continued pointing and saying ‘cat’ for rest of the twenty-minute ride home. 

I made no efforts to correct him. Instead I smiled and silently wondered what my wife would think of our son’s infantile impudence. 

At our station stop we strolled off the subway train and readied to mount the two flights of concrete steps that lead out of the New York City underground, tucking away any paraphernalia that might come loose during our bumpy climb to the street. After fastening everything down I raised my head and gave a start on noticing that the subject of my son’s effrontery was standing directly in front of us. “Shame on you.” she said waving a disapproving finger at him. Then continued looking up at me. “And by the way, it’s fox, not cat.”
 

Desmond Williams is a freelance writer and columnist based in Brooklyn. His work has been published in print (cool 'eh, Verbicide, JUNO) and online (PixelSurgeon, LosingToday).