A sober discussion of my pet's faults

A Seinfeldian Pet Version of the airing of the grievances. If you don't know who Seinfeld is you have missed out.

Aug 06, 2024

The Cat did it.

I’m starting to resent my pets. There are six of them. Let this be an airing of my grievances. I will list them, starting with the smallest first.

Ozzie the hamster. Would it kill you to use the wheel once in a while? It is expensive and squeak-free; wheels don’t grow on trees. Living with creatures that want to play with you (but not healthy play; healthy play does not end in death), eat you, or simply put you all (little) pawed up is difficult. I cannot afford hamster trauma or PTSD therapy. Mine alone is already expensive enough. Your hair looks like you used to play bass for Meatloaf. It’s 2024, not 1983.

Mortimer and the other one—the two guinea pigs I feed daily—honestly have forgotten one of their names. This may speak to a distance growing between us. Mortimer was one, but we lost one during COVID-19; I don’t think they would have vaccinated him anyway. So many sad trips to the forest with a shovel after hamster #3 or guinea pig #2 paws up.
I hope there is a pet heaven or at least something for dogs.
In Switzerland, guinea pigs are social creatures and cannot be kept alone. But when there is a big age gap, this puts you in an endless guinea pig cycle. As to grievances, I am sorry. I didn’t know you didn’t eat meat, but you go through more hay, apples and cabbage than most real pigs.
Your squeaking is very manipulative. I thought I'd stuff my bar fridge with cabbage just to shut you up, but that didn’t last long, and after the last beer and cider run, I couldn’t find much room. I swear you hear me coming, and you just put this guinea pig squeak show on; it’s an act, it’s a con.
For creatures of your size, you crap a lot; at times, I have used a real shovel to clean out your run—far too much fibre.
I apologise for the number of creatures in the house that want to kill you; I put that grill on the top, and I will ask Masha the cat to stop glowering at you.
Your defecation to body weight ratio is amazing; if humans were like that, our septic system would last about three minutes. My garbage bags and I are your septic system. Be more considerate. And I am not trying to kill you.
You could show a little more affection. It’s like being married or having a family. Every time I come downstairs, you hide in your plastic igloo. If you want me to get you a phone, you could pretend to be texting and stay out.
You don’t need to be so obvious. And another thing, you need water to live. Crapping in your water and knocking it over is not in your best interest. You will not always get old watermelon as your fruit snack. That hay isn’t giving you a lot of hydration.
Masha, the bad-tempered 100-year-old cat. Where do I start? I walk by you, and you hit me. Sometimes, I think you just get angry when anyone shows any sign of joy. You killed a rabbit, and that is why you wear the bell. It is not coming off. You have lived on a raccoon-infested, busy road as an outdoor cat during the summertime, so you are not stupid.
So, considering this, do you think pissing on white carpets is appreciated, especially when your litter box is in the next room?
And you are no longer a teenager; you don’t have the right to be so picky about food. How many times have you meowed till my ears bled, you acted like you’d been trapped in some foodless Mad Max dystopia for years, and then I give you tuna or that cat food sludge, and it’s two sniffs and out of there?
And then Malibu eats it, and she gets fat. Also, can you tell me what you accomplish by pissing on laundry piles? Is this resentment over the Halloween costumes? Anger because I make you wear the Ukrainian flag and put you in my mother-in-law’s room? Did Baba hit you because you interrupted her dream about the glory of the Soviet Union, the wonder of Putin and three-hour lineups for toilet paper? Did she convert you to communism, and this is a protest? Get in line for that.
I’m sorry that the dogs’ gang up on you; it’s elder abuse, perhaps, but if you swipe at them, they run away, so they are so much more barking, chasing, and growling than biting.
Back to being smart, when someone has left for the day, meowing for 30 minutes straight outside the door will not open the door. It will just make our ears bleed.
Malibu, Boo. Dog. You have dragged Toby into this cat-chasing lifestyle. Your toilet habits still seem to be based on personal convenience - sometimes you just prefer crapping indoors; the wood is a nicer touch than snow. You have eaten six TV remotes, and Bell is unhappy with you. Furthermore, you have chewed up one calculator, five pairs of shoes and one huge bag of white guinea pig litter. But you are doing better now; nobody uses the shoe rack, and the shoes are usually there when we go downstairs.
But can we talk about squirrels? Hurling yourself at the glass and running into the backyard with Toby like you just found out where Osama Bin Laden was hiding is a bit much. What do the kids say? Extra? Okay, Osama was a bad example; he has not been up to much lately.
You are eight inches off the ground; you will never get that squirrel on the fence. Never. Give up. And when we are having the backyard redone, which is a mud pit, you need to stop manipulating me with those big eyes and the scratching at the glass. You are already getting three walks a day.
But let’s talk about walks. You are a female; you don’t need to mark every fifteen feet like your brother. And if you see a squirrel, please refrain from forgetting that you are on a leach. You will rip my arm off.
Could you also walk on the same side as your brother on walks, and when I forgot a poop bag, do you have to pound one out as someone is sitting on their deck? Then I have to find a Tim Hortons cup or some piece of litter; nobody believes you’re peeing. Maybe you eat too much fibre, but you put your back into it.
The $600 vet bill, because you discovered you liked Tupperware, was not also appreciated - but I’d still spend it, even if they added a zero or two.
But although this is only about grievances, I appreciate you scratching on the bathroom door when I’m there. My form when you come in is rarely flattering, and you are most gracious.
Also, when I took you to my university class, you got kicked out. Well, okay, Malibu, this was not a dog-friendly class. There was something wrong with them, and they made you nervous.
But crapping on the floor was not the answer, and running out of class, up the stairs, onto the elevator, with students hot in pursuit and then getting a permanent ban from university?
Well, I know how you feel, I didn’t crap on anyone but Hamas, but that’s not allowed in some places.
Elder abuse example below.
Toby, big brother, dog. I appreciate you like homemade dog food, but when Malibu is being picky, that’s not an invitation to gluttony. And food—it’s my fault for giving you scraps, but I’ve created a monster; you hit me with your paw and is that growling I hear? I am the leader of the pack; you are nine inches tall. You are not starving.
The word tubby has come up more than once at the vet, but you have slimmed down. You are much better than Malibu when it comes to cat elder abuse. I can’t fault you for sleeping on the living room furniture; it’s hard when you live with five people, and everyone has different rules. It’s like living with divorced parents.
But Toby, do you have to stop every twenty feet when we are walking? And stop trying to mark in bushes, on bad slopes, back and forth; it isn’t working. Only fences, Toby. Fences.
It’s called a walk. That is the noun. I prefer the verb. We go out to “walk”; it is not a “Hey, let’s go exploring and find twenty new places to lift my leg and let fly with a spray of piss” extravaganza.
The name difference is intentional, Toby.
I’m trying to get you to cut back, but it’s called a walk, not a urine-sniffing expedition. Do you think your pee sprays are impressing the Boston Terrier down the street?
Do you think he goes, “Oh no, Toby was here, no more walks through the forest, it’s Tobyland?” Your marks are not respected. You might as well just let it all go at once.
Imagine if you had a six-year-old child who loved walks but insisted on carrying little markers with flags on the top. And every 20 feet, she wanted to plant one because she had determined she had rights to the land. Yet she would not just plant; she would examine the ground back and forth, sometimes 20 seconds, and some pieces of land would not pass muster, and she would allow you to move on; this is walking with you, Toby, except it’s not flags, it’s streams of pee.
Toby is like an airline pilot who loves landing but hates taking off. He always slows down, not because he’s tired, he’ll chase a squirrel, but because he smells something interesting. I know dogs have good noses, but is urine like fine wine to them, “is that a light mix of pork and cabbage in that pee with overtones of citron and alabaster, a four-year-old retriever perhaps, what say you, Rover?”
And as far as respect, you are twenty pounds. Growling at pit bulls or dogs twelve times your size is not a good career move. It’s like me going up to some MMA dude in a bar and spitting in his drink. They have a small dog park run for a reason. Your sister is much more self-aware about her relative size.
Barking. You know that we have dogs who live near us. You do not need to stand on the porch and bark; they know you are there, and you do not need this hypermasculine fence-protected show of strength. We get it.
Big Toby.