I know that I’m the only person who could never get tired of pictures of my cat. Just think of Matt who has to look at him day in and day out, share a home and a bed with him, and listen to me as I beg “Matty, Matty! Kiss Mojo on the mouth!”
One of my requirements for pets in our house is that they have fur fluffs between their toes. There have been a few exceptions to this rule including Mister Charlie, the hermit crab that I accidentally killed by constantly dipping him in water as that’s the only time he’d come out of his shell. Then, after all of his legs fell off because of stress, I Googled it and found out that hermit crabs should only “bathe” once weekly. I still cannot sing “take a little powder, take a little salt, put it in my shotgun as I go walkin out” without the blood of Mister Charlie taunting my conscience.
The other tuft-less creature who occupied our home was Winthrop, the blue betta fish. Winthrop lasted far longer than Matt ever expected because I cleaned his bowl like a phenom and always remembered to leave a fishbiscuit for him before we went away for the weekend. The day that Winthrop sucked his last air bubble and was flushed to his watery grave was the kind of day that tests the strength of even the best marriages. I could see Matt patiently reciting the rosary in his mind as he handed tissue after tissue to his blubbering, weeping wife who was utterly incapacitated and could not move from the couch. For two hours.
So it’s basically become a must that our pets pass the toe tuft test. Essentially this assumes their lifespan has strong chances of outlasting me in my old age. Or at least they will live long enough to mark the date that I am prescribed psychiatric medication to deal with my Obsessive Animal Attachment Disorder.
September 25th, 2008 at 8:34 pm
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