Fluffy My brother

Some kids are lucky enough to get a dog or a cat for a pet. Some kids get a cow or a horse. Some are limited to a fish or a hamster.

I got a brother.

I wanted to name him “Fluffy” but I was not allowed to name him. No, no . . . THAT privilege went to the people who dropped him off in my life and made me responsible for feeding and exercising him . . . not to mention house training him. If someone ever tries to give you a pet that they have already named, NEVER, accept it. That means this is a “insert type of pet here” that someone else tried to love and they failed. It is true, sometimes it is the fault of the people who bought the darn thing, but most likely, especially if the pet is a brother, the fault is completely in the pet.

Someone is trying to pass off their broken lame pet on you.

Mine did not do a single trick that anyone cared about. That is because no-one cares what you can stick up your nose, or what weird sounds you can make with your arm pitt. Passing gas and burping are NOT tricks either.

Mine was forever doing stupid things.

That is all that needs to be said about that statement. No need going into detail about all the kinds of stupid things he did. He did them. ALL of them.

Mine was a tattle tale. He was forever telling everyone everything. Some of it mattered to me and some did not. It doesn’t matter to what degree your pet disobeys or ignores you, you still have a responsibility to teach your pet the right things to do. I used electro shock therapy.

They didn’t work.

Stun guns don’t work either.

Medication was pointless, even when we buried it in his Kraft Dinner, he refused to swallow it. Some of my grandmothers best linens, walls and other children are still stained with neon orange because of his projectile spitting.

Pets are meant to teach a child about love, and responsibility. They are meant to be part of the warm hearted memories and video reels that you one day pull out and start to cry remembering what a great pet “Fluffy” was and all the good times you shared. Pets are family members that are with you through some of the best times in your life celebrating, and then comforting you through some of the worst. This is the circle of life. Norman Rockwell drew pictures of this. Lassie and Old Yeller were the poster dogs for the whole movement.

This is a wonderful, good, heartwarming thing.

Everyone knows that is how it is supposed to work.  Everyone, except my pet, “Fluffy:” –  the brother. (I don’t care what the rest of the world called him.)  It is possible that Fluffy had special needs and that I had too high of expectations for him.   Wah Wah Wah … he should have tried harder.

That is why I am asking now, that people the whole world over, join with me in a movement to ban brothers from the family home where they suck at being pets and just make little girls grow up hating men and the people who dumped their problem pet off on them.

THIS is why the world is upside down and all over the place and makes no sense.

Send your donations to me.

Thank you.

(and mom, dad . . . I am not ever coming home again until you put him down.  Enough is enough.)

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