THE SONIC BOOMER
I think it’s time that our pets become true members of the family. I know, I know. Rover is already part of the family. Fluffy already thinks she’s human. Ping and Pong are my babies.
That is a load of kitty litter, and we know it.
Dogs are dogs; and cats are cats; and Ping and Pong are sources of furry wonder (breed and sex as yet undetermined) but they are not true family members.
They have been allowed to take it way beyond that.
When the weather is intolerable and the car won’t start and we walk six blocks in a lightning storm because Fluffy is out of Fancy Feast, we know who’s in charge. Never mind that Grandpa hasn’t had a sip of coffee in two weeks — that’s his problem.
What I am suggesting is to get these beasts off the entitlement train long enough to take some responsibility for themselves. And no, I’m not suggesting we throw Fluffy and her metal-buckled collar out the door where lightning could strike her. She can wait until the sun comes out like the rest of us. Then she can go get her own dinner. With her own money, preferably.
And what about Rover? I am getting sick and tired of trailing behind this king-of-all-creation intently watching his rear end in case he poops so that I may have the extreme honor of lifting the hot steaming mass into a bag, which I now get to carry beside my sack of doughnuts all the way home. It’s disgusting. And I’m sorry, but any little green men landing nearby wouldn’t have to ask to be taken to my leader — they’ll know immediately who’s in charge.
As for Ping and Pong — my days of struggling to navigate a dual-bed stroller through a crowded shopping mall so their clipped and buffed toenails don’t touch the floor has come to an end. I am no longer so desperate that I have to live on the run-off of the adulation they solicit, and not once have they picked up the tab at Starbucks. From now on, I’m getting my toenails buffed instead.
And what about the children? Don’t blink at me in that perplexed fashion — I am talking about the children we all had years ago. The ones we loved above all else until Rover edged them off the couch and Fluffy drank their milk, and Ping and Pong soiled their favorite pajamas. Those children. The same ones we bully into feeding the dog, changing the kitty litter and shredding up fresh newspaper for the travel cage. Why should they be forced into involuntary servitude? For the occasional nuzzle or purr?
It’s time that these animals go out and earn the money for their own couches, milk and newspapers. Maybe they could put together a little act of some kind — jump through a few hoops, like I do every single day.
Oh, no. Hoop-jumping will never do. It’s some kind of cruel and unusual punishment, as is balancing on a box, squeaking a bike horn and bouncing a ball on the end of one’s nose. You know what? Give me that job.
I will jump, balance, squeak and bounce for two half-hour shows per day and, in exchange, you provide all my meals, clothing, transportation, entertainment, spa treatments, medical care, insurance and a roof over my head for the rest of my life. As a bonus, I will purr occasionally and let you dispose of my waste in bags you provide.
I’m just sayin’.
