The remote had somehow made its way to the unoccupied couch across the room. I was trapped in a reclined position on the other comfy leather couch under a warm blanket and my bargain bin Toshiba laptop, way too comfortable and cemented into my ass grooves to alight from my position quickly.
Whatever background noise was on the television had segued into a commercial break. The sound of some dolt trying to sell me products always gets my attention, so I was distracted from my work but in no position to quickly change it to another show so I could carry on.
I suffered through a couple of inane commercials about Lord only knows what before the third one finally sent me into a mental tizzy.
A lady in a recliner was on the television lovingly doting on a cat while it sat on her lap, no doubt thinking, “What the fuck has my life become?”
Linda Lonelypants was clearly distraught about whether or not Mr. Sprinkles was getting enough protein in his diet from his current cat food.
Rest assured, “pet parents,” you can feed your cat whatever the hell the brand was and your cat will live a long and healthy life. I couldn’t tell you what the brand was because after I heard “pet parents,” my brain went all fuzzy.
This must be a new thing because I remember biting my tongue several months ago when I went to pick up Carly (our 9 month old mutt) from the vet after her surgery to get spayed. The woman who went back to get her asked me whose daddy I was when I approached the counter.
I’m here for my dog, lady.
Because we like our vet and I didn’t want to offend Tammy Treehugger, the vet tech, I didn’t say anything other than, “I’m here for Carly.”
For whatever reason, this subsequent reference to pet parent annoyed me, quite unreasonably I’m sure. Then I heard it again during some goofy dog training show.
I barely wish to recognize that I’m the daddy to the three humans in the house some of the time, so claiming to be dad to the four-legged nuisances in the house ain’t happening.
I’m not the only one in our house who thinks it’s stupid either.
Not only do I dislike the notion that my dogs are in any way equal in the family hierarchy to even my little cretins, I sometimes wonder if I don’t just outright hate them, period.
This old bitch above is Jojo. She’s like 91 years old in dog years. At this point in her life, she mostly just drives me bonkers in between one of her many naps.
She has selective hearing in the worst way. I can yell at her at the top of my lungs to go lay down when her 80 pound ass is under the table while we’re trying to eat dinner and she’s sort of in the way, but she allegedly can’t hear me. We’re two feet away and she acts oblivious. Open a bag of chips or jingle the leash even slightly downstairs though and she’ll come running from upstairs ready to go.
When she does at least pretend to hear me, making her move is such a chore. She is old; I’ll give her that. Coaxing her up the stairs can be difficult when her heart isn’t in it, but somehow, she’s able to get her fat ass on the couch during the middle of the night or while we’re away at all.
Those nails on the tile floor! Click, click, click. Oh my God! Make it stop!!! Why the fuck must you follow me around? It’s not love, people. It’s because she has a tapeworm or something and circles the kitchen island like a shark in the water. She knows that with three little ones around, scraps on the ground aren’t a matter of if, but rather when.
They are so bountiful, in fact, that her degenerate, mooching ass can pick and choose what to eat. Dropped grapes, banana slices, salad remnants, tomatoes, etc., go completely untouched. Well, not completely I guess, she’ll sniff it to make sure it’s not something she likes before leaving it there for me to clean up later. YOU EITHER EAT EVERYTHING OR YOU GET NOTHING! That’s my rule, so when I see a kid drop a piece of bacon or beef or a french fry, Jojo and I lock eyes before she’s click clicking and I’m diving to beat the other to the morsel.
If I win, I taunt her by showing her the food before tossing it into the trash while she watches scornfully. When she wins, she eats and turns it into some nasty gas for which the Wife will try to blame me later on in the evening.
I won’t even get into the mud and shit being trampled in out in my yard (which she has destroyed) and carried onto our carpets, or the fact that she just sort of pisses a little bit here and there whenever and wherever she wants. Don’t get me started either on the time she had some sort of episode that left shit or vomit or something ALL OVER the house one night while we were gone. We couldn’t tell what it was; it was that bad.
She has managed to pass along many of her aggravating, passive aggressive skills to the puppy, so I have another dog’s lifetime worth of that to look forward to.
Why get another dog then, Don?
We’re stupid, that’s why. There’s really no other explanation for it.
Dear crazy “pet parents” who read this. I don’t really hate my dog(s), at least not all of the time. They get to live in my house and eat and bathe and chew up my rugs and the kids’ toys, etc. so they’re pretty happy. I don’t hate them anymore than I sometimes hate my kids or wife or any other person I’ve ever lived with. If you live with anyone long enough, they’re going to piss you off, man or beast, so….lighten up.