Pet Peeves

I can haz Nazi sympatheez

If you want me to give you an honest answer, yeah, ok, I'll fucking admit it. I did have a sex dream about my one-year-old Puggle, Wyatt. Now, that may sound gross or disturbing or borderline psychotic, but I assure you, within the context of the dream the sex was a completely normal and natural occurrence. In the dreamworld that I created, everyone has sex with their pets. In college I took a semester of Freudian psychology, so after I woke up from the dream I analyzed it pretty quick. I'm sure the reason I had a sex dream about my dog is because deep down I really, truly love the little guy (the severe beatings are just an extension of that love). When my fiance and I first purchased the dog, I was hesitant. I never had a true pet before, and certainly never a dog. But over time I grew to love Wyatt, as a parent loves his child. "So, you love your dog and that's why you had a sex dream about him. If you have a kid, are you going to have a sex dream about him too?" Yes. Wyatt probably snuck into my subconscious because he spends so much time with me. At night, he sleeps next to me, during the day, he sleeps on the couch next to me, when I'm on the shitter, he sleeps behind the toilet on the urine-stained floor, when I masturbate, he sleeps under my computer desk. Actually, he used to watch me jerk off, but I put a stop to that. He would just sit there and look up at me with these huge, accusing eyes, as if it was my 85-year-old Catholic grandma watching me jerk off (though if that was the case I would probably come faster). Like I said, I never had a pet before, so now that I do, I just have all this pent up love for it. Well, I guess I did have a cat once. When I was in the first grade, my family rented a farmhouse outside of Treynor, Iowa. And one day our landlord brought over a box of kittens, four of them, for me and my siblings. My cat was all black and I named him Spike, Dale's cat was a multi-colored thing named Gizmo, because Dale is queer. Now, these cats were pets the same way Nat Turner was a slave. Their leader was a feral farm cat named Rambo, who possessed all the charm and friendliness of Christopher Walken in The Deer Hunter. Rambo was a big, orange sumbitch with a chunk of fur missing from its back leg. The only time I really saw Spike or any of the other cats was when my dad put out a bowl of food on our back porch. The cats came and went as they pleased, guided only by basic instincts, like a retarded southerner, which is getting redundant, I know. Our neighbors across the gravel lane also had some cats. Their eldest daughter Jessie, who was in Dale's class, named hers Princess. It was white and gray (grey?). One day Princess went missing. After being gone for about a week, we went out searching for it. I was the one who found it. It was in an abandoned barn, laying on its side with a pool of blood around its head. I nudged it with my foot and the whole cat moved it was so stiff. That was my first encounter with a blood-drenched pussy, and lord knows, certainly not my last. Anyway, when my family moved away from the farm Spike and his friends were left behind. After that I never really had a pet again. Sure their was your run-of-the-mill fish, but a fish hardly can count as a pet. My pet fish died because I didn't feed it for a long time. I fucking forgot I owned a fish, so it died. In fifth grade I had a pet hamster named Dion, but that guy died too. I'm not sure how. Dale and I fed it and cleaned its cage and gave it fresh water. Then one day I came downstairs and noticed the gray furball legs up. Dad said, "Get rid of it." So Dale and I took it over to an abandoned lot near our house and Dale said, "You think I can chuck him over the road?" And I said, "No way." Well, ol' Dale reached back and heaved the motherfucker as hard as he could. It flew through the air, this dead, furry thing, and landed with an anticlimactic thud well short of the road. "If he was bigger I would have made it," Dale reasoned. Dion's fate didn't exactly have the pageantry of a Viking funeral, but I think Dale put a lot of love into that throw. If only we could have kept him alive longer...he would have made it over the road. And that was pretty much it for pets. My sister brought home a couple of kittens out of the blue one day, but I hated those things. She still owns them, these two conceited felines that do nothing but shit, eat, and shed. I'm not a big fan of cats. They're all just furry, mobile plants. They contribute nothing to the conversation. No, I'm just happy with my dog, Wyatt. Which is nice, because I didn't think of myself as a dog person. When I was in the third grade my grandma's Schnauzer bit me in the crotch because I was teasing it. It would have gotten my dick, too. The only thing that saved me was my dick was massively undersized. So I'll just go on with Wyatt, my best friend, my little guy...you can cut the sexual tension with a knife.

The Moore You Know: I think I would dress nicer if it was easier to try on dress clothes at JCPenney's. The thing is I can't stand buying dress shirts. They come perfectly and obsessively folded to make you feel guilty about trying them on. And then they are stuffed full of slips of cardboard and several hundred needles. Seriously, trying on a dress shirt is like trying to negotiate one of Jigsaw's fucking morality traps. Well, no thank you. I'll stick to my sweat pants and my t-shirt that says, "I was at the Million Man March and all I got was this lousy t-shirt! And Sickle-Cell..."

© Eric Moore - 2011