March 31st, 2007
We’ve all heard it before. Pet ownership can have many benefits for people, including reduction in stress. I believe it to be true, for the most part.
Greeting from my beautiful pit bull, Briggs; her tail wagging wholeheartedly, whipping the walls as she waits patiently (as possible) to smother us in kisses is a wonderful way to end a stressful day at work. Her warm kisses and gentle nuzzling are very much welcomed as we sit down together after evening chores are complete.
Life without pets is just not the same to me. The unconditional love, even on the bitchiest of days; their complete and udder lack for the ability to judge us bodes well on the days I decide to let Carter sit in front of the TV with a box of Corn Pops while I read USWeekly. (Don’t judge. It’s only happened once a couple times. )
Even Connor (the cat) has his affectionate moments, when he’s not scared shitless of his own shadow; he will jump up on the desk for some belly rubs as I read blogs. After his futile attempts at suffocating me in my sleep with his fat ass, he curls up at the end of the bed at night. It’s enough to make your heart melt.
Where am I going with this you wonder.
Were all the facts considered while conducting these studies? I don’t think so because their judgments are slightly skewed considering the tremendous stress and anxiety I endure trying to take these animals to the vet.
Hunting down Connor has become a two day event in preparation for his yearly visit. The cat box comes out the night before so he can investigate. Check it out for traps and poison. After he’s given it the all clear, he’ll embark on the task of cramming his fat ass in. He’ll turn, ever so slightly trying to keep even a whisker from touching the side of the box. Once his attempts are foiled by his fat ass, he slowly backs out of the crate and bolts like there’s a chance I’m going to strap him in there and hang him as bait in front of cat hating rabid dogs.
The next morning, I walk around the house meowing like a cat, which sounds vaguely similar to the raccoon fight in my backyard last summer that woke me from a deep sleep; as I’m calling his name I’m cursing him to no end. Most times he will appear, maybe I sound like a cat in heat to him; I dunno. This cat is a boarder line circus freak. A pet store special. He’s so inbred, he doesn’t know his ass from his head most days. I love him so.
If all else fails, I can usually find him huddled in the farthest corner beneath the bed in the spare room. Nothing can coax that fat bastard out like a bowl of dry cat food shaken slightly in a metal bowl. He’s then crammed into the cat carrier, ass first so he doesn’t have to endure the ride trying to turn around. Thoughtful, I know.
The dog. She loves the vet. So much so as soon as we pull down his road she’s bounding all over the back like her ass is on fire. Crying, panting and jumping at the window hoping that, just once, if she hits the glass at the right angle it will set her free. She bounces, whimpers and whines as we walk through the door, gasping for air since she’s tugged her collar so tight, which doesn’t phase her in the slightest, as she makes a bee line for the reception.
What’s so bad about this you say? Well, throw in an 18 month old toddler who turns in to a blubbering mess because he wants to hold the carrier and the dog’s leash; all the while getting into everything in sight. Carter’s to the point where putting him in a stroller is like subjecting him to a straight jacket. (Which I’ve never thought about doing. Not even once.)
Where’s his father? Sitting on his ass reading a fucking magazine.
As Briggs is trying to sniff the ass of the chocolate lab, Carter is running in behind the reception desk and the cat is shaking the shit out of the carrier. I see Mike out of the corner of my eye, reading this fuckin’ magazine; not a care in the world. My lasers of death searing a hole through his temple don’t even phase him. I politely (as possible) say. “Mike? A little help?” His gaze meets mine. “What? What do you need help with?”
Nothing asshole, just wanted you to critique my ability to balance awkwardly on one foot as the cat shakes the shit out of my arm, the dog pulls in the other direction, and I try to corral our child who’s embarked on his own little journey.
Men. I wish life was always as simple as theirs.
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