They say that a home isn’t a home without a pet. I’ve always enjoyed having pets around the house but unfortunately for me, a rented house isn’t a rented house without a restrictive contract. In fairness, my landlord is probably wise in not letting me have any pets as my success rate leaves a little bit to be desired. I’ve always loved my pets, but looking back through the years I’m not convinced that they loved me back.
At the tender age of five my parents bought me two fluffy little gerbils. My mother wasn’t keen on the names I’d ingeniously picked, ‘one’ and ‘two’, so she opted to call them after her two aunties, Mary and Lucy. If I could have had my time again I think I’d have named them Goebbels and Adolf which, as you will soon appreciate, might have been more apt. Alas, despite both gerbils having genitalia, the names Mary and Lucy stuck. I grew pretty fond of them both and the daily routine would be to let them feast upon some cheese whilst I manoeuvred my Scalextric track so that my 1:32 scale Nigel Mansell F1 car would hurtle through their cage at one hundred million miles per hour. It was always that tad more exciting to know a slip of the throttle could result in a fluffy massacre. I’m sure they loved it.
I clearly remember the moment when I realised just how cruel life could be. I excitedly ran downstairs one morning to feed Mary and Lucy only to find they weren’t in their cage. Instead, they’d been replaced by a few tiny limbs and a vast blood splattering across the blue dining room wall. It made even the Saw movies look like Walt Disney himself had produced them. I poked around the shredded newspaper for a while not quite fathoming what had happened until I had collected together my very own, only slightly more disturbing, gerbil version of Mr. Potato Head. Mary and Lucy had taken part in their very own UFC cage fight. I was officially traumatised. I’ve never cried so much in my life. My mum tried consoling me by explaining that they’d merely ‘fallen out’ with one another. Which might I add, is the world’s biggest understatement given that they’d ripped each other apart limb by limb.
Then along came, quite literally, my two budgies Sooty and Sweep (Clearly, I named the pets this time round). They used to chirp all day long and say things like ‘who’s a pretty boy then, Sooty’s a pretty boy’, which even at the age of six I knew was pretty gay. They used to love dancing with a little mirror at the side of the cage. And when I say love, I don’t mean figuratively speaking. They genuinely used to love the mirror so much, my mum made me clean it on a daily basis. Surely, in today’s society making your six year old son clean up budgie cum is child abuse? Not then it wasn’t. I was told day after day, “they’re your pet, you wanted them, you can clean them up”.
So whilst most of my pets have caused me a fair bit of heartache, not to mention covering my hands with both blood and semen, nothing can compare to my friend of a friend’s pet. Now I know that you instinctively think that anything involving a ‘friend of a friend’ is actually about me, but I beg you not to judge! I have a friend who shall remain nameless, who has a friend that for anonymity sakes we shall just call, Andy. Last month Andy had the house to himself when his parents were away and, naturally, invited his girlfriend around for a bit of tomfoolery. His girlfriend was a good time girl and, amongst other things, enjoyed partaking in a bit of anal sex which is all well and good. Though my only word of warning has to be, avoid the cream sofa when you do it. They were going at it quite hard when the inevitable happened and the dirty cow shat herself all over the cream sofa. A classic mistake. They tried desperately to clean it ready for the return of Andy’s parents but it was stained to high heaven. Sadly, the parents returned to find their cream sofa stained with excrement and demanded to know what happened. Andy’s always been good at getting himself out of trouble so I have to commend him here for both his courageousness and lying ability by simply saying “the dog did it”.
In what was to be the greatest cover up known to man since the Da Vinci code, the plot took a terrible, unforgiveable twist. Andy’s parents put the dog down. Forget the blood and semen that torment my dreams to this day, at least I can hold my head up high and say that I never contributed to the murder of the family dog.