I’m an animal lover, not in the creepy way so don’t start those jokes. (Thats what she said works on three levels) So I don’t remember a time when there were no pets in my life. Heck, I even worked at a pet shop for a few years in college. Having animals in your life is great but to be honest with you not all pets are good pets. Not all dogs deserve to have a good scratching session with lots of “who’s a good boy” thrown in, and a lot of cats are jerks. Some pets just suck. The worst part is, if you have a conscience or Catholic levels of guilt you tolerate them and hope they runaway, or arrange some accidental death. If you do not have these hangups you just drop them off at the pound or on a corner.

The Himalayan cat named “Paddy”. What a royal asshole this cat was. It opened with ruining a vacation. Our step mom became obsessed with Himalayan cats for a moment and thus we got a Flame Point Himalayan, any cat with three words in it’s breed is a bad idea in my mind. We actually cut short a camping trip to pick the little bastard up in some shithole in the California Delta. We brought him home and he promptly pissed in my dad’s stereo and shoved all the records out of their organized shelves. He considered the litter box optional, and one day he went out for smokes and never came back. We didn’t ask a lot of questions.

“Shiro” The Samoyed. if someone ever offers you a free purebred animal, especially if it’s the runt of the litter you punch them. Thanks to Disney, we all think about the runt that everyone wrote off being the hero that saved the baby. Shiro would have held the door open for the wolves and tried to hit on them as they strolled by for baby snack. He was literally everything that could be wrong with a dog outside of biting people. He pooped and pee’d in the house, he ate a tube sock and wandered around a dinner party with half of it hanging out of his pooper. He finally sat down and my dad sublimely put a foot down and let the extraction take it’s own course as the dog sat up. Dad made me throw it away. Eventually the fourth time he ran away to the house up the street with the little girls who put bows in his fur we let them keep him. His name was changed to “Snowball”, I’ll just leave that one here.

Mars the parrot. If Satan exists, he has feathers.

Little Black. Right before we had our first child my wife was having some kind of baby needing freakout so she became obsessed with a breed of cat called “Devon Rex”. It’s basically like you wanted a “Mr. Bigglesworth” but chickened out halfway through. We ended up with three of the goddamned things.

The Good Cat.

So one of them is horrible, one’s OK, and the other lives with a nice couple. One of them shits in the box but doesn’t bury it so every morning I wake up to the alluring smell of a steaming loaf of Salmon Delight post colon. But this is the cat I like, and that’s how bad it is.

Little Black is the bulimic of cats. Yes I realize that all cats barf at some point, but this cat and I hate each other and she knows it. So she strategically barfs on things that are mine, or are important to me. Yesterday she totaled my stereo. My stereo is my obsession, I have a lot of hobbies, but the sound system is my Mona Lisa. I go to other people’s homes and I listen to their shitty stereos and I feel fulfilled. My shit can shake the paint off your walls, yet still has the subtle high ends and mid-range sounds to let Barry White knock the panties off the ladies. It’s dead now and here’s the proof.

Also my Clownfish bites me when I clean her tank. Maybe its just me?