Nope. It Was Dildos.
Someone once asked me for advice about their pet. I don’t know why they chose to ask me as I don’t really care for most things, and to top it all off, their pet wasn’t even a dog – which is pretty much the only good pet there is; except turtles, lions and robots.
So, he says to me, he says “How do I stop my cat from bringing home dead birds and mice?”
I guess his problem was bigger than I thought. He owns a cat. A cat?? Cat’s are for women and children. Men own bears, wolves, and fish with the word “fighting” in their name, although I’ve never seen a Fighting Fish actually have a fight. I guess the only way you can stop your cat from bringing home dead animals is to get rid of the cat so it never happens again. Cats are stupid. You get all these cat enthusiasts who argue that cat’s are intelligent. No. My parents owned cats for years. Never once did any of them respond to their name or commands or even brought me food that wasn’t a dead animal. In fact, every time I went near either of them, they just ran away. Boring pet. They also developed this habit of going into the cupboard built into the base of my bed and taking a dump on my comics. I didn’t poo on their things; and these stuck-up, good-for-nothings just strut around like they own the place.
One time a stray cat came into my parents yard. After a while it started howling and crying. I went out to investigate further into why this petulant, irksome creature was content with ruining my day. The little blighter had only gone and got its leg stuck under an unstable cinder-block which had just fallen over. Completely disregarding my previous plight with my comic-ruining felines, I lifted up the cinder-block to free this squawking, pathetic mess from my garden. As freedom became apparent for the cat, just as it skipped away, it bit me right on the hand. A massive chunk of flesh now missing from my palm and a gush of blood was imminent. On further investigation over the next few days, this toe-rag was a regular in my yard, so the next time I spotted it, I crept out to the path leading to the backyard, armed with nothing but Cat-Disdain and the next-door-neighbours Nail Gun. The cat was strutting down the side of the back fence. I let a 9 inch missile fly into his or her general direction. Rats! I missed the cat by an inch or so, as the bang of the gun startled it before the nail reached its vicinity. The nail took a chunk out of the fence and the cat never returned to my garden.
Even though the garden death rate never changed from zero that day, the war was won tactfully and cleanly. Stupid cats.
Don’t you come back no’ mo’.
