Sunday, March 29, 2015

Dear Buster the Calamity Collie

I am an animal lover.  In addition, most animals love me.  The only exceptions to this rule include every Mainecoon cat ever born, because they were forged from the very fires that heat Satan's jiffypop, an obese blob of pudding, fur, and hatred that was once a cat named Baby, and you, Buster the Calamity Collie.  Oh, yes, you act like you love me.  You pretend that all you want is my acceptance, love, and all the tummy rubs I can give.  Your actions speak much louder than this, though, and your aggression will not stand.  You can't fool me by placing your head on my leg, or by discretely placing your head under my hand so that I have little choice but to pet you.  Yours is the face anxiety.

Yours is the face of menace.

Yours is the face of impending, unrelenting, unstoppable chaos and fear.

People think you are so delightful with your boundless energy and constant need for attention.  That's because they only see you in small doses.  They also don't tend to realize that you are like a case of tinnitus mixed with an opera sung by Cher and Gilbert Godfrey.  You are always emitting noise, be it loud, soft, high pitched, or gratingly low.  You can be sitting on a comfortable couch, surrounded by people you love, and still constantly whine for an hour through the GODDAMNED FINALE OF HARPER'S FREAKING ISLAND...just because you want to.  You are the reason people drive slow in the left hand lane.  You give people that feeling of slimy cold unease they get when they sweat too much and then enter a store with really strong air conditioning.  You are the reason there will never be a sequel to The Rocketeer, even though Billy Campbell still looks great and the technology available would make it look amazing.  You cannot be happy until everyone else is miserable, and that is highlight with every last interaction you've ever had with Murphy the Customer Service Cat.

Murphy is the nicest, most happy-go-lucky cat to ever walk this earth, and this infuriates you.  If he walks by, on his way to get a small drink of water, or to find a place to nap, you viciously growl, jump up, and try to eviscerate him with the teeth that you haven't rotted out with years of drug and alcohol abuse.  Poor little Murphy, not the most sprightly of felines, is forced to duck, dodge, and flee for his life.  He can be found later, wedged behind whatever cover he can find, still winded and confused at the level of hostility and aggression that was hurled at him.  Then, there's his playtime.  Murphy's chief joy in life comes from the few precious little fuzzy balls I bought him years ago at the grocery store.  There's only a certain type he likes, which they no longer make, so he doesn't have many.  Should he politely stand at the bannister, as he does, and gently lower a paw to request I throw him a ball to play with, you, you bastard son of sin and sacrilege, go into a frenzy, trying to intercept the ball.  Should he actually get the ball and begin to sing his joyful ball playing song, you lift your head and howl in misery, trying to cover the sounds of merriment with pain and anguish. 

You even turn the nice things I do for you into awful lessons in the futility of pleasing you.  A few weeks ago, you spent the majority of my day off acting like a normal, well behaved canine.  I decided to reward you by taking you for a drive.  The lurid, high pitched mating call you cackled at every passerby could not be stifled by the radio, and you forced my hand at keeping the windows closed as you carpet bombed the car.

Not learning from my mistake, I saved a jar of peanut butter I had finished off and gave it to you to lick clean.  Two days later, you again pretended to be a "good boy" and I tried to scratch under your chin.  From the front of your jaw to your collar was a solid, unyielding crusty shell of dried peanut butter and a complete lack of shame.  You thrilled in the fact that you had made me touch that mess, and let out a shrill keening wail as I tried to disinfect my hand.  Still trying to be a hero, I tried to clean you with a wet paper towel.  At first you acted like a petulant child, turning your head away from me whenever I tried to get near.  Then you snapped at me, struggled, and tried to hide behind a chair the did nothing to conceal you.  When I raised my hands in frustration and cried out "Why won't you let me help you?" you lifted your head, smirked at me, and fire burned in your eyes. Also, I am fairly certain, you turned into a horrible looking lizard, but only for a second.  Then you were just plain, awful, feculent Buster. 

If you were a person, you would split your time between watching reality television and pulling the Hitler card on people in the comments section on the Fox Sports forums while Wayans Brothers movies play on your VCR.  Every one but Blankman, because you hate Blankman. 

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