A pet peeve is defined as "Something that is annoying to a particular person that may not be annoying to others." Mine is having pets. I am clearly in the minority on this one, since according to the ASPCA there are now approximately 70-80 million households in America with dogs and another 74-96 million with cats, and I'm guessing that the people who own those animals enjoy having them. This may not be true, since I am among the cat owners (and until two years ago the dog owners) and I am sick to death of the whole shebang.
The last week of my life would make a great comic movie starring Seth Rogan and James Franco, if only it were funnier. In fact, if it were even the teeniest bit funny. Actually it would make a better drama, a tearjerker like Sophie's Choice only without the Nazis.
I can hardly stand to relive the gory details so I'll just say it fast to get it over with: To recover from the death of my beloved cat of twenty years, which bummed me out as much as any death of any being ever has, and to get my surviving cat a replacement companion, I purchased an adorable seven-month-old kitten from a local shelter. Once home with us, that new kitten stopped being adorable and turned into Carrie of the cat world. It bummed out my surviving cat much more than the death of my other cat bummed me out, to the point that he took off on the morning of the third day and stayed away for 12 hours, returning late at night in dire condition, sick and weird and hiding under the bed and not eating, drinking or using the litter box.
We got the point and returned the new kitty to the shelter, a loss of only $89.00 and thus no big deal although it could feed a family of refugees for a week no doubt; what refugees where I am not saying because don't get me started on that whole thing.
Anyway, Lurch was sick for two days, and so a vet visit was necessary and then another one requiring an x-ray and blood work and subcutaneous intravenous fluids and an appetite stimulant, and in all upwards of $6oo was spent to get him back to somewhat normal. (I am leaving out the grossest part that took place last night and after which I may never be the same, involving cat feces and that's all I'll say, necessitating a day spent laundering everything in my house including but not limited to bedding, bathrobes, personal clothing, towels and more. I went to a laundromat for the first time in 40 years since I needed a commercial washer for some of the larger items.)
So then this afternoon, after Lurch's morning douche in the kitchen sink (which thank God my son was kind enough to drive over and join me for since it's a two-person job when the cat weighs fifteen pounds), he seemed better and was no longer hiding under the bed and seemed eager to go out. Since he had finally eaten and actually performed some bodily functions that were close to what is deemed normal on this planet, I made the executive decision to let him go, thinking he would be back in half an hour since it was his first jaunt after being sick. He's now been gone four hours and I am not only looking out all the windows and opening all the doors constantly, I am writing this post about it, and that just sucks.
And that's why I am done with pets and if Lurch never comes back then I say good riddance to him and his kind. I will simply donate my pet beds and pet carriers and cats toys to the shelter and be done with the whole lot of them and enjoy what little time I have left without worrying about finding a pet sitter to go away for a freaking weekend when the spirit moves me (if I ever have any spirit anymore without Lurch).
The last week of my life would make a great comic movie starring Seth Rogan and James Franco, if only it were funnier. In fact, if it were even the teeniest bit funny. Actually it would make a better drama, a tearjerker like Sophie's Choice only without the Nazis.
We got the point and returned the new kitty to the shelter, a loss of only $89.00 and thus no big deal although it could feed a family of refugees for a week no doubt; what refugees where I am not saying because don't get me started on that whole thing.
Anyway, Lurch was sick for two days, and so a vet visit was necessary and then another one requiring an x-ray and blood work and subcutaneous intravenous fluids and an appetite stimulant, and in all upwards of $6oo was spent to get him back to somewhat normal. (I am leaving out the grossest part that took place last night and after which I may never be the same, involving cat feces and that's all I'll say, necessitating a day spent laundering everything in my house including but not limited to bedding, bathrobes, personal clothing, towels and more. I went to a laundromat for the first time in 40 years since I needed a commercial washer for some of the larger items.)
So then this afternoon, after Lurch's morning douche in the kitchen sink (which thank God my son was kind enough to drive over and join me for since it's a two-person job when the cat weighs fifteen pounds), he seemed better and was no longer hiding under the bed and seemed eager to go out. Since he had finally eaten and actually performed some bodily functions that were close to what is deemed normal on this planet, I made the executive decision to let him go, thinking he would be back in half an hour since it was his first jaunt after being sick. He's now been gone four hours and I am not only looking out all the windows and opening all the doors constantly, I am writing this post about it, and that just sucks.
And that's why I am done with pets and if Lurch never comes back then I say good riddance to him and his kind. I will simply donate my pet beds and pet carriers and cats toys to the shelter and be done with the whole lot of them and enjoy what little time I have left without worrying about finding a pet sitter to go away for a freaking weekend when the spirit moves me (if I ever have any spirit anymore without Lurch).
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