You Have to Love Me, I Don't Eat Your Friends

I’m going to take a minute to talk to you about animals.

Before you run away screaming like your ass is aflame, I will assure you this is not a PETA post. Nor is this going to be a post about how yummy and delicious kangaroos taste.  Cool?  Sweet. I’m glad we got that out of the way.

Some of you may remember such posts as Meet Keith: He Probably Eats Poop and Hey Roberta, GTFO! If you haven’t read them, let me give you a quick rundown:  My landlord is an idiot, I found a dead raccoon fetus on my back porch, Keith is a teenage raccoon who likes to give me sass, and Roberta is the Queen Bitch squirrel who used to reside in the wall at the head of my bed.  Feel all caught up? Good. Me too.

I’m sure you’re thinking “Britt! You must feel so fulfilled with all of these wonderful critters in your life!” Well, sadly, you are mistaken.  As much fun as raccoon fetuses and squeaky squirrels are, I find myself wanting more.  When I stroll down the street and see a cat, I will run after it and force it to love me. Not in a creepy, predatory way (probably), but in a why won’t you just snuggle with me and love me forever kind of way. I’m pretty good at making sure they aren’t alley cats before I smother them… mostly.

So why don’t I just shut the eff up and get a pet, you ask? When it comes down to it, I am not in a place where I can own an animal. (Dear PETA, I know people don’t ‘own’ animals in that slavery kind of way, but fuck off. I say what I want.) My apartment is itty bitty, and I don’t spend enough time at home. I go away for extended periods of time, and I’m not nearly financially stable enough to replace all of the electronics/wires/shoes that the sonofabitch will undoubtedly stick in its mouth/butt.

I adore animals (particularly of the cat/dog/bunny varieties) and dream of a day when I can have one of my own to dress up in dragqueen outfits to love. Want to know a sad, little factoid about me? I’ve never had a pet.  Well, I suppose that’s not entirely true. I once had a pet guppy for a couple of weeks. (I can feel the jealousy radiating off of you from here, folks.) I got him for free at a garage sale. I named him Bob. I kept him in a rose bowl I also got for free that same day at the garage sale. It was all pretty glamorous.  I don’t mean to brag.

Bob and I had a gay ole time. We rolled in the grass at the park. We took long walks through the neighbourhood. We joined a pet playgroup and made all sorts of pals. Oh no wait, we didn’t do any of that. He was a fucking guppy and didn’t even have a face.

I was a very responsible fifth grader and ended up bringing Bob into the science lab at school when I went away for a week with my family. I told people I wanted to be sure he would get fed, but truthfully, it was a relief to be rid of him. I’m pretty sure he died shortly after (probably from separation anxiety.)  Now, don’t get the wrong idea. This is not an indication of my ability to have a pet. It’s an indication of how motherfucking boring guppies are and they have NO place being a pet of a 10 year old.  Plus they look like sperm.

After Bob, there were no other pet prospects. When I got old enough to move out, I lived vicariously through the pets of my friends, roommates and girlfriends. They always brought me so much joy, but not the same kind of joy as I always imagined people felt when it was their own animal. (I mean, people call their pets their ‘babies’ and they call themselves “mamma” or “daddy” of the animal… which I’ve always found really weird, but hey, who am I to judge? I guess I could have been Bob’s mama, but, like I said, he didn’t even have an effing face.)  What was I saying? Oh right. I lived vicariously through other people’s pets. Actually, I don’t know why I’m writing this in past tense, because I still fucking do. While I may seem really calm, cool and collected when I’m playing with your pet, chances are my brain is saying something like this: HE LOVES ME MORE THAN YOU AND WANTS TO BE WITH ME FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER AND EVER.

And you know what? He probably does because I carry bacon in my pocket I’m awesome.

So, I’m sure you’re wondering what the fucking point of this post is. And you know what? There isn’t one.  Aren’t you glad you made it to the end?

Good.

Me too.

Now give me your pet and no one gets hurt.