With all this talk of pets in the news this week, and it has been delightful, I
think we all particularly enjoyed the story of the man who owned a dog, it was quite special, but I've personally been a little nostalgic, a little sad, and a little bit very much upset.
You see, I used to have a pet. And it was the most marvelous and splendid time of my life.
This was many years ago, I was a naive little child, practically a baby still, no older than fifteen or sixteen years old. Still wet behind the ears, for I didn't yet own a towel, I was still patchy skinned, for I didn't know yet that you were not supposed to wash your face with methylated spirits, and I was still pig nosed, for I didn't know yet that standing with your nose pressed against the wall pointing upwards for six to ten hours a day was possibly only the fifth or sixth most fun thing to do in a windowless, furnitureless, light free room.
I'd been begging my parents for a pet to love for years, and they'd always say the same thing 'we don't love you, so what makes you think pet would?' They were sweet being honest with me. Some parents lie to their kids, not mine. 'But ME, I can still love it!' I'd plead, 'it wouldn't want your love' they'd reply. They sure were swell.
Although it turned out all this generous honesty was just a ruse, for one day, out of the blue, they brought me home my very own pet to love.
Sure it was full of soup cans when I first saw it, but I knew that the soup wasn't the real thing they'd brought home for me, because they'd never fed me before, instead making sure 'I learned to forage for mould, moss and silverfish'. Which is how I'd become so self reliant.
So I knew, the real gift was the box, a pet cardboard box just for me. I could see its little cardboard ears flapping the second it came home, and I raced to it and gave it the biggest hug I'd ever given anything. Of course at that time I thought a 'hug' was when someone slapped you in the head with their most ringed up hand. But I wasn't wearing any rings, as I wasn't at that time allowed possessions, so I tried something else, where I put my arms around it. It felt a bit faggy at the time, but at the time 'faggy' was what my parents called me when I asked what I'd be when I grew up, and so I knew it was something that meant 'strong'.
In fact my hug was so faggy that all the soup fell out. This turned out to be a blessing in disguise, for one of the soup cans got a tiny dent in it, and as a reward for being so faggy, my parents locked me in the small closet under the stairs for six months, a perfect amount of time to get to know my new pet box better, for of course they were sweet enough to let him stay in there with me.
I named him 'Roger' and we had the best most ace time ever. We did everything together. Pooping and peeing our pants. Eating an old pair of skis. Drinking Windex. Wondering if our legs were supposed to be developing gaping wounds big enough to fit a fist into. Hide and seek. Although I always let Roger win at hide and seek. And if I'm honest Roger always let me win at the pooping, ski eating, Windex drinking and gangrenous legs games, that's the kind of buddies we were.
One day I blacked out from hunger, disease and from vomiting blue plastic and when I woke up Roger was ON MY HEAD! He was so silly.
Of course after six short months, my parents let us out, and greeted me with a big faggy hug. It was swell. My lip began bleeding and everything!
That was the day Roger and I first went out to play together. Play being what I called it when my parents let me clean their toilet with a toothbrush and then after use it to brush teeth. Roger was so helpful, he sat and watched the whole time, which was way more help that my parents who spent that time flicking lit matches at me. My parents were the best people in the world, and here was Roger being even less skin burning than them!
I knew for sure we'd be best buddies for ever.
But sometimes forever doesn't even last forever.
Six weeks later my parents let me have my first bath ever! I'd been a good boy and let them use me as a tennis ball for a few hours, and they were so nice and let me next play a game called 'holding Thomas's head under water till his frantic fighting for air dulls down to a deep black out, only to rewaken him by pissing in his face'. It was a swell game.
I begged them to let Roger play too, and so they threw him in the bath with me. He looked so peaceful floating in that misty cloud of water, rancid beef juice, my blood and three of my teeth, which had fallen out 'finally my third set of teeth were ready to come in!' I was so happy.
But then, when I stood up from the bath, and lifted Roger with me, HIS ASS SPLIT IN TWO AND HUNG DOWN BELOW HIM!!!
I screamed 'he's dead, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead, my best friend is dead!' And my parents laughed and laughed. I guess it was kind of funny. THEY were my best friends after all. Roger was merely the first thing that had ever loved me.
To reward me for my sense of humor my parents then soaked Roger in lighter fluid in front of me, then lit him on fire and right as he was fully ablaze, chucked him in my face. Then they gave me faggy hugs till blood poured down my face and I passed out.
I woke up back in my favorite little closet, but it wasn't the same without Roger. So the day that the hole in my leg went all the way through and my foot fell off, I snuck out and put it in my parents soup.
Soon they were taken to somewhere called the 'hospital' and when their stomachs we're pumped and my foot parts came out they were taken somewhere called the 'big house' which sounds like a swell place, I hope they're happy. And now I live home alone.
It's not all sad for me though, because I always get to think about Roger, it's hard not to, seeing as half of him ended up melting into my face. And because of that, in a little way, Roger and I really WILL be together forever!
I sure do love happy endings, I hope you do too.