Roommate Rant #2: The Truth About Cat and Dog

It’s not that I’m anti-pet. I have one, in fact:

https://tuliplaglitter.wordpress.com/2011/04/14/

However, when choosing a pet, one should be mindful of the care one’s new best friend will require. I got an iguana because I knew I would be out of the house for most of the day. Had I gotten a dog, it would have died in days. I did the responsible thing.

The first problem I have with the animals in the apartment is that thay have Nahuatl names. When I told my (Mexican) boyfriend and his (Mexican) family about this magniloquent moniker, they burst out laughing. Why? Because there’s something fucking obnoxious about foreigners naming their pets Nahuatl names. “Wait,” you’re thinking, “isn’t your iguana’s name Chilaquil? That’s no American word.” You are correct. But chilaquiles are a food, and my iguana is green, and anything involving food supersedes cultural boundaries because food is fabulous. Also, my iguana is the exact same color as chilaquiles. These animals bear no resemblance to “cloud” or “beautiful one.” None whatsoever.

Wikipedia defines “pet” as:

  • A household animal kept for companionship and enjoyment

I knew upon moving in that there was a cat living in the apartment; I also knew that he was slightly aggressive. Said feline, when I first met him, clawed me in three places, drawing not a small quantity of blood. It wasn’t a shock. I decided from the get-go I would keep my door closed and ignore it as much as possible. Whatever, I thought, I’m not around much anyway, and how bad can a cat really be?

Bad, it turns out. He’s an asshole, and an unintelligent one at that. Like his owners, he has overpriced and very specific culinary compulsions; thus, when I went to the market and bought him the standard 13 peso bag of bits, he did not eat it. Nor did he eat the 50 peso Whiskas from Oxxo. He moaned and screamed every single night until his owners returned and bought the 250 peso kitty chow (rimmed with gold, I imagine, for that price) to which he is accustomed.

Aggressive, it turns out, doesn’t begin to describe this thing. It’s outright rageful. In the first couple of weeks I literally looked as though I’d tried to kill myself due to the deep, ubiquitous gashes up and down my arms. Whenever I’d put a glass or a plate on the counter, he’d beeline for it, out of nowhere, and knock it to the ground. Under my watch he destroyed two salad plates, a mug, a wine glass, and three soda glasses. Clearly he didn’t get enough love as a child.

The animal seriously has no redeeming qualities. He’s not one of those difficult-but-ultimately-conquerables, like a bad-ass that really is a softie and just needs a little extra TLC. He’s a legitimate fucker, a douchebag extraordinaire, and the subject of many a poison dream concocted in my head. I would like nothing more than to return and find that he’s “escaped.” There is nothing enjoyable or companionable about him: He is the worst animal I’ve ever known.

Wikipedia continues:

  • Noted for their loyal or playful characteristics, and their attractive appearance

Was, I should say. With the return of the roomies came another addition to the apartment: A repulsive, rodent of toy dog with eternally matted hair and dingleberries galore that was gifted to one of the girls by a student. I think little dogs are pathetic, especially if they could fit in a cup (this one could).

Now, based on the above description of the cat, one would surmise that any intelligent being would never make the mistake of introducing another animal into the apartment. Unfortunately, this little ray of sunshine with whom I share house doesn’t fall into that category. She thought the cat could use a friend. Fine. But perhaps a large, intimidating dog, or an equally nasty cat, would have been a more appropriate choice – not a dog that could be killed with an errant swat of the paw.

So they’re fighting, obviously, straight from the get-go, meaning that someone has to hold onto the damn dog at all times. But the stoner sisters don’t have the longest attention span, and the giant rat ends up rolling around the floor getting mauled while they stand by and shriek helplessly.

Wikipedia assures us:

  • Walking a dog can provide both the owner and the dog with exercise, fresh air, and social interaction.

On the contrary, NOT walking the dog can turn the dog into a demented, unhygienic bane to my existence. Acting on the principle of size, I presume, the girls decided that the dog would do its dailies in the same way a cat does – in a litterbox. Rather, a paperbox. But unless you’re The Creepily Small Dog Whisperer, this is logistically impossible. Dogs need to be walked. Outside. Left to their own devices, they will go in the house. On the couch. On shoes. On rugs. Basically anywhere but the paperbox. Neither dog nor owner are getting exercise or social interaction; additionally, the house is even grosser than before. Permanent yellow spots stain the floor, elongated shits are littered about as though Tinkerbell’s evil twin tossed a handful of fucked-up fairy dust everywhere.

Not only is the dog incontinent, but she is incontinent with frequency. In one hour, she peed on the floor three times. The main owner’s training method is to pick her up, shove her nose in the puddle and yell “NOH!” in her really annoying accent about fifteen times. What it boils down to, yet again, is laziness on their behalf: The dog needs to be walked.

Finally, Wikipedia insists:

  • Keeping pets has been shown to help relieve stress to those who like having animals around

Tragically, for those who do NOT like having animals around, they are slow torture, a constant source of angst and strife, and yet another mess maker in an already wrecked living space.

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