Pet sounds

I was watching this show on Animal Planet the other night, and it was making the point that dogs, our cute little lovable pets, can still be quite dangerous, as they’re not that far removed from being predatory wolves, genetically speaking.

Seems that no matter how sweet and cuddly they appear, they can still revert to their old violent instincts, even if you’re not giving them the Michael Vick treatment.

I went outside and looked down at Lucky, lying on her back, four paws up in the air, feebly attempting to catch a fly in her mouth while farting constantly from the cheese I’d been feeding her, and I gotta tell you – I wasn’t that concerned.

We always had a pet when I was growing up, and without exception, it stayed outside. I thought only rich people and crazy folks kept a dog in the house. We went over to my aunt’s house for dinner one time, and there two big old hound dogs walking around inside like they owned the place. My mom pulled me aside and told me not to eat anything, she’d stop and get me something on the way home.

So that is how I have always viewed the situation – the dog stays in the yard. I’m a little more liberal about it than my parents were. I let Lucky in the house on cold nights, and during bad weather. I take her to the vet, which they would have never done. If the dog was hurt, you put sulfur on it. If it didn’t get better, then your dad would get the shotgun and put the dog in the car one day to go on a little “hunting trip”, and only your dad would come back. Don’t give me that look. They do the same thing to horses.

We weren’t real particular about what we fed the dog. Table scraps, stuff in the refrigerator that was about to spoil, it didn’t matter. I never saw a dog turn down any food. I’ve seen dogs eat other dead dogs. Think about that next time you’re hand-feeding your little Fluffy some gourmet dog food.

We had a cat that lived to be 24 years old with nothing but pure meanness running through its veins. That cat could whip a dog’s butt, jump 4 feet in the air flat-footed and would spit at the devil. She’s pretty much the only cat I’ve ever liked.

A few years ago, I got talked into getting a rabbit as a pet. Talk about a waste of fur. The kids named it Snowball, but I only referred to it as “that stupid rabbit.” We were never sure if Snowball was a boy or a girl. It never got to be around other rabbits, so the point is moot anyway.

Rabbits have no personality, no endearing qualities. They don’t acknowledge humans. When you pick one up, its heart is racing like a teenage boy at Hooters, and it is constantly trying to claw you and get down. Once you put it on the ground, it hops about twice and begins to attack the ground like a gravedigger. Then it takes a dump and crawls under a bush. That’s the pet rabbit experience in a nutshell.

I really didn’t like the rabbit. I used to threaten to get involved with a psycho woman just so she would come and boil the bunny, like in Fatal Attraction. I tried to feed the dumb thing once, and it promptly bit me.

I did feel bad for my wife when the rabbit died, because it upset her, but then she insisted we bury the thing. I suggested we just toss the rabbit out in the back, because Lucky had always been dying to play with it. Lucky used to sit under the rabbit’s cage and gaze up longingly, then give me a look that said, “Please, come on. One time. Just 5 minutes, that’s all I ask.”

But we put the thing in a plastic Tupperware bowl, I dug a hole on the side of the house, sang a few bars of Amazing Grace and laid Snowball to rest. At least I didn’t have to take it on a hunting trip.