mutts, butts, and a triple lutz

i hate pets. i'll just put it out there.

i could try to soften the words by saying that i'm not really a 'pet person', but that would be distorting the truth. either way, it never fails to elicit a frown from the person who just asked me if i'm a 'dog person' or 'cat person'. as if these were the only two pets to choose from. just one time, i want to see their reaction when i tell them with a straight face that i'm a 'cobra person'.

there's a certain assumption that human beings as a whole love some things unconditionally. babies, sex, ice cream, sunshine, and pets. but these assumptions fail to take into account the infertile, the eunuchs, the lactose intolerant, the albinos, and the mail-carriers.

the confused face that contorts in response to my lack of dog/cat devotion, is the same response i frequently receive when asked what position i play in football. "i don't play football" is always promptly followed by a literal jaw drop and amazement that someone with 'my frame' didn't play. "what a shame. such a waste." they'd mutter as they walk away. i imagine it to be the same issue that black men over 6' 5" struggle with when they're asked what NBA team they play on. people don't fit into a tiny convenient box.

as for pets, i just don't like the idea of sitting on someone's couch where i know for a fact their cat regularly rests its anus on the exact spot i'm about to sit. it's not socially acceptable for me to rest my naked genitalia upon on a friend's furniture, but their beloved family mutt can rub it's junk wherever it pleases - no questions asked.

most people are weird about sharing chapstick with another human, but have no problem placing their lips to a labrador tongue (which incidentally has come into contact with toilet water, it's own excrement, and the dead sparrow it just left you on the back porch).

my hands are in a constant state of being prepped and ready for surgery at all times - due to my debilitating addiction to purell. so i find it disconcerting that i'm forced to manhandle a filthy animal as it grinds it's hips into my shin because it's in heat; while their dunderheaded owner laugh at pooksie's use of my appendage as a sexual outlet. the owner reaches for a spray water bottle to deter the illicit behavior, while i make a mental note trying to remember to place 'pocket taser' on my christmas wish list.

knowing that i eventually want to have children, i thought i'd try being responsible for another life and purchased a beta fish as the litmus test for future fatherhood. showering my new life form with lavish gifts to show how serious i was in this endeavor, i bought the expensive food (which smelled like the sawdust at the bottom of an outhouse), a humongous bowl, and some polished stones which would surely become the showcase item on our little version of MTV Beta Fish Cribs.

i went to the kitchen to set up his upgraded home. i meticulously cleaned every inch of the bowl and gently placed the stones in the bottom; blue ones on top, to accentuate his smoky blue eyes. i slowly filled it up with bottled water from the swiss alps, and sprinkled a dusting of food flakes on the surface to excite his palate.

now for the big moment: the move. i placed the mansion-bowl in the kitchen sink and reached for him to make the transfer. quivering with excitement, i tilt his tiny cup so that he can make a clean slide into his new abode. to my amazement, he erratically performs a triple lutz and flops directly into the dark abyss of the garbage disposal. i panic and attempt to grope in the hole to grab a fin. after five minutes of trying to cram my huge hand into the depths of the disposal i give up and flip the switch, turning my little gymnast into sashimi.

frustrated at my lack of responsibility, i go straight back to the pet store and purchase another fish. i'm determined to make this one live.

and he does. for many weeks. one afternoon i decide it's time to change his water since it's becoming a little cloudy. with the mastery of an ichthyologist, i flawlessly make the change-over and transfer my little buddy to his clean room. thirty minutes later, i walk past his bowl and let out a tired sigh. i've killed another one - he's belly-up. i grab a spoon to scoop his tiny, lifeless body from the water. it's at this point i realize that the cause of death was the boiling hot water i accidentally re-filled his bowl with from the tap.

i hop in the car and drive to the pet store to purchase beta III. if this one didn't work, i promised myself that i wouldn't procreate until i could handle the delicate intricacies of fish ownership. as goes with youngest children; there were less pictures of him in the photo albums, i gave him all the hand-me-down polished rocks, and i was more lax when he misbehaved. but i still loved him just as much as the others.

our many months of fun adventures soon came to a head one dark september morning. i came downstairs and noticed his bowl was getting pretty cloudy. i crouched over and peered inside to find him, in order to temporarily transfer him for the cleaning. way too murky. i shook the bowl a little, scanning near the rocks to find him, in case he was hiding. nothing.

did he go for a walk and forget to leave me a note again? we had argued over this topic many times in the past and i had to drill it into his head that i wasn't trying to be domineering, i simply cared about his safety. i tried to explain it to him, but he never understood that the neighbor's cat was only being friendly to him because she had ulterior motives.

i took a step back to consider my next move when i saw it. a dried up apple slice? a curled up potato peel? no. i only wish it had been. beta III's stiff, inanimate form was twisted on the ground below the bowl. he had committed suicide by jumping out of the bowl in the middle of the night.

okay. so maybe this one wasn't my fault. at least that's what my therapist keeps trying to convince me.