Pets
Thursday, January 19, 2006
The Harvey award nominee ballot is out and after talking it over with Josh we came to the conclusion that we, you know, want one. Or two.
So here’s the deal – I encourage all of you to fill out the ballot and vote for your favorite books but, if you’d like to be a Friend to Hoarse & Buggy, I went ahead an made this ballot that you can start out with (and there’s plenty of room to put all of your other favorite books down). Now, the ballots are due by March 3rd. You can print it out and mail it to:
Paul McSpadden
605 West Arapaho Road
Richardson TX 75080
Or email it to: pjcjmc2 @ comcast.net
Because fuck it, if we can't get people to buy the book we'll at least win a shitload of awards.
Anyway, I started filling out my own ballot – this is going to take some time but here’s where I’m at so far.
Story time…
____________________
When it comes to pets there is one simple rule life applies to me – if I like them they die a horrible death, if I don’t like them they live forever.
My first pet was a bird – a parakeet, I named her Frances after my Grandma Fran. I must have been seven or eight years old, woke up after having Frances for about a month to find it dead at the bottom of her cage. I buried her in the backyard and Grandma Fran asked me to not name any pets after her again.
That pretty much set the tone.
Garfield was my first cat – nasty son of a bitch but I loved him. He was just wicked playful, he’d always hide under the bed or behind some furniture and jump out, scratch up your leg and run away. The scratches didn’t hurt, it was more of a playful thing, but holy fuck did he scare the shit out of me every time. He’d also used to like to sleep on my head – literally, he’d lie down on my head while I slept and fall asleep with me, purring all night. If I ever tried to push him off he’d come back instantly, bat my forehead for good measure, and set himself back up.
About six months into having him he started walking funny, acting fatigued. My father took him to the vet – feline leukemia – they put him down.
My next pet was a dog – Chewy. A little beagle, cutest fucking thing imaginable. We got him when he was a puppy, friend of the family’s dog dropped a litter and we swooped one up. He was very timid at first; this little guy would always hide when there were people in the room. Eventually he started opening up to me and my sister, followed us around, played with us. It was cool shit, never had a dog and for the first time in my life I was seeing what the fuss was all about and I loved the experience.
A couple of months in we took him to the vet for vaccinations. One of the vaccines was for parvo virus. Two weeks later we were back at the vet – Chewy had parvo. Had to put him down.
The real kick in the ass? The vet ran us through the collection agency when we refused to pay the bill – how’s that for customer service?
“Sorry I killed you dog, that’ll be a thousand dollars.”
But my fucking hermit crab that I won at a festival? That goddamn thing lived for two years, I never gave it a new shell, hardly ever fed it. Finally I gave him to a neighbor because I didn’t want him and she did.
I had a goldfish – neglected to shit. Never cleaned the bowl, never fed it. We kept it on top of the microwave and hoped his integrated exposure of low-level radiation was enough to shut its liver down or something. It just kept growing bigger and bigger. Two years pass – you’d walk up to the bowl and the water was so murky that you couldn’t even see inside. Sure enough that fucking fish would swim up to the glass and mock you, let you know he’s still alive and doing quite well.
And then there was Yoda and Obi-Wan, my Siberian dwarf hamsters from college.
R and I purchased them together, kept them illegally for over a year. They were cute little guys, we’d put them in the ball and watch them run all around the dorm floor – they became mascots of 4-West after some time. One of the hamsters must have broken his leg at one point and we just left it be, I know it’s horrible but this was before Robin really turned me into an animal lover – back then I didn’t think to take a hamster to the vet – he was still walking around, still active and was never squeaking of anything.
When R and I broke up I had them at my place in Brooklyn – they became an extension of her and I kind of started to neglect them. My mom was the one to first discover that Yoda, the one with the broken leg, was dead. I buried him in the backyard and during on of my lesser moments I decided to let the other one go free because I was sure that was what he wanted.
Seriously, I 100% thought that.
So I set him free – in Prospect Park – and I still feel like an asshole about it to this day. I even felt like an asshole then, when it was done, but it wasn’t until Robin that I realized how much of an asshole move it was.
Robin had a rat when we first started dating named Sydney. Female rats are tumor prone and when Robin noticed a tumor on Sydney she wanted me to accompany her to the vet. I asked her, “For a rat?” The look she shot me was enough to know I should shut up.
Took the rat to the vet and the surgery to remove the tumor was something like three hundred bucks. Now, here I am saying to myself, “Three hundred bucks? The rat only costs eight bucks.” Robin, on the other hand, didn’t even hesitate to agree to get the tumor removed.
The next day we went back to the vet to pick up Sydney – the rat was wrapped up in bandages and the doctor told Robin to watch Sydney, she’ll try to take the bandages off. Robin stayed up all night watching her. Eventually there came a point when Sydney was unsupervised for an hour or so and she instantly tore the bandage and the stitches off. The rats bleeding, I figure this is done, right?
Nope, we get wrap her up, get in a cab, and go back to the vet who restitches Sydney. This time Robin stays up with her constantly and the times when Robin’s sleeping or not with Sydney, I or a friend of Robin’s is watching over her. The stitches heal.
A couple of weeks later I go over Robin’s place and she’s sitting on her bed crying, a dead Sydney in her hands. Robin tells me the rat died in her sleep. I take Sydney, put her in a shoe box and we go to the Charles River to bury her. It’s winter time, the ground is frozen – I have no shovel and I’m digging a fucking hole with a spoon. We get it just deep enough to put her in a couple of inches without the shoe box, cover her up, and Robin says some words.
During all this, the vet visits and the last rites, I’m standing there and saying to myself, “Holy fucking shit – I can’t believe I let a hamster go free in Prospect Park.” I shit you not, you want to talk about rehabilitation – watching Robin go through all this made me one of the biggest animal lovers in the world. Over the past five years living in DC we’ve had six rats. We currently have a parrot, three cats and a dog. Our vet bills cost us more than our own hospital bills. We go to animal welfare fundraising functions, volunteer at shelters, Robin runs the largest pet sitting business in Washington DC and I love hearing her talk about her day – changed man through and through.
And I look back at the past pets, the one’s that I liked that died on me, and I kind of have to wonder how many of those deaths could have been averted with a little more attention and without immediately deciding to put them down.
Perception is a tricky bitch sometimes.
So here’s the deal – I encourage all of you to fill out the ballot and vote for your favorite books but, if you’d like to be a Friend to Hoarse & Buggy, I went ahead an made this ballot that you can start out with (and there’s plenty of room to put all of your other favorite books down). Now, the ballots are due by March 3rd. You can print it out and mail it to:
Paul McSpadden
605 West Arapaho Road
Richardson TX 75080
Or email it to: pjcjmc2 @ comcast.net
Because fuck it, if we can't get people to buy the book we'll at least win a shitload of awards.
Anyway, I started filling out my own ballot – this is going to take some time but here’s where I’m at so far.
Story time…
____________________
When it comes to pets there is one simple rule life applies to me – if I like them they die a horrible death, if I don’t like them they live forever.
My first pet was a bird – a parakeet, I named her Frances after my Grandma Fran. I must have been seven or eight years old, woke up after having Frances for about a month to find it dead at the bottom of her cage. I buried her in the backyard and Grandma Fran asked me to not name any pets after her again.
That pretty much set the tone.
Garfield was my first cat – nasty son of a bitch but I loved him. He was just wicked playful, he’d always hide under the bed or behind some furniture and jump out, scratch up your leg and run away. The scratches didn’t hurt, it was more of a playful thing, but holy fuck did he scare the shit out of me every time. He’d also used to like to sleep on my head – literally, he’d lie down on my head while I slept and fall asleep with me, purring all night. If I ever tried to push him off he’d come back instantly, bat my forehead for good measure, and set himself back up.
About six months into having him he started walking funny, acting fatigued. My father took him to the vet – feline leukemia – they put him down.
My next pet was a dog – Chewy. A little beagle, cutest fucking thing imaginable. We got him when he was a puppy, friend of the family’s dog dropped a litter and we swooped one up. He was very timid at first; this little guy would always hide when there were people in the room. Eventually he started opening up to me and my sister, followed us around, played with us. It was cool shit, never had a dog and for the first time in my life I was seeing what the fuss was all about and I loved the experience.
A couple of months in we took him to the vet for vaccinations. One of the vaccines was for parvo virus. Two weeks later we were back at the vet – Chewy had parvo. Had to put him down.
The real kick in the ass? The vet ran us through the collection agency when we refused to pay the bill – how’s that for customer service?
“Sorry I killed you dog, that’ll be a thousand dollars.”
But my fucking hermit crab that I won at a festival? That goddamn thing lived for two years, I never gave it a new shell, hardly ever fed it. Finally I gave him to a neighbor because I didn’t want him and she did.
I had a goldfish – neglected to shit. Never cleaned the bowl, never fed it. We kept it on top of the microwave and hoped his integrated exposure of low-level radiation was enough to shut its liver down or something. It just kept growing bigger and bigger. Two years pass – you’d walk up to the bowl and the water was so murky that you couldn’t even see inside. Sure enough that fucking fish would swim up to the glass and mock you, let you know he’s still alive and doing quite well.
And then there was Yoda and Obi-Wan, my Siberian dwarf hamsters from college.
R and I purchased them together, kept them illegally for over a year. They were cute little guys, we’d put them in the ball and watch them run all around the dorm floor – they became mascots of 4-West after some time. One of the hamsters must have broken his leg at one point and we just left it be, I know it’s horrible but this was before Robin really turned me into an animal lover – back then I didn’t think to take a hamster to the vet – he was still walking around, still active and was never squeaking of anything.
When R and I broke up I had them at my place in Brooklyn – they became an extension of her and I kind of started to neglect them. My mom was the one to first discover that Yoda, the one with the broken leg, was dead. I buried him in the backyard and during on of my lesser moments I decided to let the other one go free because I was sure that was what he wanted.
Seriously, I 100% thought that.
So I set him free – in Prospect Park – and I still feel like an asshole about it to this day. I even felt like an asshole then, when it was done, but it wasn’t until Robin that I realized how much of an asshole move it was.
Robin had a rat when we first started dating named Sydney. Female rats are tumor prone and when Robin noticed a tumor on Sydney she wanted me to accompany her to the vet. I asked her, “For a rat?” The look she shot me was enough to know I should shut up.
Took the rat to the vet and the surgery to remove the tumor was something like three hundred bucks. Now, here I am saying to myself, “Three hundred bucks? The rat only costs eight bucks.” Robin, on the other hand, didn’t even hesitate to agree to get the tumor removed.
The next day we went back to the vet to pick up Sydney – the rat was wrapped up in bandages and the doctor told Robin to watch Sydney, she’ll try to take the bandages off. Robin stayed up all night watching her. Eventually there came a point when Sydney was unsupervised for an hour or so and she instantly tore the bandage and the stitches off. The rats bleeding, I figure this is done, right?
Nope, we get wrap her up, get in a cab, and go back to the vet who restitches Sydney. This time Robin stays up with her constantly and the times when Robin’s sleeping or not with Sydney, I or a friend of Robin’s is watching over her. The stitches heal.
A couple of weeks later I go over Robin’s place and she’s sitting on her bed crying, a dead Sydney in her hands. Robin tells me the rat died in her sleep. I take Sydney, put her in a shoe box and we go to the Charles River to bury her. It’s winter time, the ground is frozen – I have no shovel and I’m digging a fucking hole with a spoon. We get it just deep enough to put her in a couple of inches without the shoe box, cover her up, and Robin says some words.
During all this, the vet visits and the last rites, I’m standing there and saying to myself, “Holy fucking shit – I can’t believe I let a hamster go free in Prospect Park.” I shit you not, you want to talk about rehabilitation – watching Robin go through all this made me one of the biggest animal lovers in the world. Over the past five years living in DC we’ve had six rats. We currently have a parrot, three cats and a dog. Our vet bills cost us more than our own hospital bills. We go to animal welfare fundraising functions, volunteer at shelters, Robin runs the largest pet sitting business in Washington DC and I love hearing her talk about her day – changed man through and through.
And I look back at the past pets, the one’s that I liked that died on me, and I kind of have to wonder how many of those deaths could have been averted with a little more attention and without immediately deciding to put them down.
Perception is a tricky bitch sometimes.
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posted by Jason at
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