A friend of mine got married a couple of years ago and now shares her house with her new husband’s cat and dog, both of which I hate. There, I said it.
I like animals – especially the kind that don’t live in your home. Horses, for instance. I even like goats because they’re ugly and dumb and get a bad reputation because they have those messed-up eyes like a madman. I can relate.
But my friend’s cat is not easy to like. He has bad breath. He drools. He’s got a face like a politician – sort of jowly and ugly – and enjoys sitting on his hind legs with his hands in his lap and his gut out.
And, of course, he can hardly contain himself when he sees my lap. I’m constantly shoving him off of me and telling him he stinks. But we’ve all had experiences like this, right?
When I was a kid, my parents used to complain about their friends’ wiener dog, who liked nothing more than licking feet. My mother’s natural inclination was to kick that little muthatruck across the room. (She didn’t.) It was the era of sandals and pantyhose. I can’t blame her.
Another example: I once dated a man who owned a black teacup poodle – the kind that just sits on the couch, silently farting all night. This thing – which seemed to be on a strict diet of chili and piles of smoldering garbage – could stink up a house in two hours. We’d be watching a movie, and it would just kind of look at me, as if I should be happy about it. I couldn’t stand it.
So, is it wrong to let owners know you want their crotch-sniffing dog to stay the hell away from you? Or am I just being a mean ol’ animal-hating crone?