February 21, 2006 at 9:30 am (The Enlightening Ones)

Yeah, there’s another one chapping my ass–what else is new?

Lesson #3: If it has four legs, YOU are higher on the food chain than it is.

This is a dog:
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This is a cat:

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While I’m completely convinced that they’re the smartest and cutest pets in the world and have the sweetest, softest fur, I am under no illusions. I know that the Beagle is stubborn, chubby, a chowhound and a master con artist. I am fully aware that Miss CottonFurFuzzyPants the cat is haughty, ill-mannered, demanding, cranky, and a walking Van de Graaf generator. The humongous critter not shown is a love machine on four legs, sheds more than a dog really ought to, and will be the first dog headlining the newspaper for licking a burglar to death. These creatures have done their level best to convince me that they are Gods and Goddesses and should be treated as such. I have identified this concept as the pure bovine excrement that it is and quit falling for it shortly after the first time I had to clean up their bodily outputs.

Certain other members of my household, however, think they should be waited on hand and foot, fed whenever they demand it, cosseted, coddled, and generally worshipped. While all the four-legged things in the house do require certain types of handling, that handling isn’t always pleasing to them. Here’s a list of what they’ll demand and what the reaction should be:

1. Feed me. Now.

The only time this should net a response other than, “Nice try. Go play,” is when the grey thing’s dish is dead empty and, in the case of the barking variety of critter, just after their morning walk. The dogs get fed once a day. That’s it. Does that Beagle truly look starved? No–she’s about 25% over what she should weigh in spite of a tight diet and long exercise daily. The big boy’s not starving either. While he’s not overweight, we don’t call him Lummox for nothing.

Since you won’t allow me the pleasure of actually feeding my own fucking dogs, you get to have me telling you how to (and how NOT to) do it. Once the creatures have been fed, there is no need to tell them how hard their life is that I don’t let you give them table scraps 24/7. You don’t get to whine with them when you have food and they don’t. All the “Oh, poor puppies! But your Mommy (gagging a I type this) won’t let me give you treats from my plate. Isn’t she mean?”

You truly need to shut the fuck up about how hard their life is before I barf on your shoes. Truly.

2. Take us out. NOW.

The cat does not go out. EVER. Should you decide again that she does, YOU get to pay the vet bill when she makes the kitties with some lucky feral cat from the neighborhood. YOU also get the extreme joy of watching her birth them, and I sincerely hope it’s on your fucking down pillows. YOU also get the gag-producing pleasure derived from watching a mama cat eat its offsprings’ placentas. And, need I mention the long, desperate process of finding all these fuzzyassed bundles of delight new homes when they’re weaned? Hells no, I’m not doing that–YOU get to go beg everyone you know to take one of them.

The dogs go out on a schedule. Your interfering bullshit has already decided that schedule, so more whining that the poor puppies don’t go every hour on the fucking hour will produce the results detailed in #1, and I’m certain you’ll run out of shoes in short order. If you think I’m going to put up with THAT smell while you spend a week figuring out how to salvage them and then just throw them into a corner, you’re out of your elderly mind, because if you don’t clean them within two hours I’m tossing the fuckers.

3. What’s that on your plate? Give it to me. NOW.

This applies to the dogs mostly, not the cat. She only begs from me, and only ice cream and yogurt. The dogs, on the other hand, will smell a sucker a mile away, and they have GPS on your old butt. If you even look like you’re about to reach for food, they’re on you. Why is that? It’s because of #1 and your actions when you have food. Instead of playing the “Serra’s a meanie” card, instruct them in a firm voice not to beg food and make them go elsewhere. Honey and I have trained them to respond. We spent a long time training them to do this so they won’t act like little Olivers with empty bowls in the orphanage. I do not thank you for fucking (yet again) with things you really should not.

There are many other items in this list, but it can all be summed up thus:

These are not your animals. They are not your animals. You don’t own these furry things. Since you do not own either Zeke, Dani or Desdemona, Honey and I are the law on rules for them.

Not you. Not on a bet.

Start acting like you’re the human and they’re the animals, because that’s the way it really is in the really real world that we live in. I don’t care what world your inner mind lives in, so long as it doesn’t raise my blood pressure. When it comes to my dogs, however, it’s time to wake up and smell the coffee.

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