Do not ever walk into a pet store with your children to "just pet some puppies" with the assumption that you won't walk out with a much lighter wallet and a bundle of slobbering joy in your lap. Sultan and I had vowed to not ever get any more pets until at least a couple more kicked off. Our house is a God damn zoo right now. Please slap me Naomi Campbell-style if you hear me utter, "Gee, wouldn't it be a good idea to get ANOTHER pet?"
We have two cats, Issey and Princess Leah, who are not particularly social and bulimic. Issey licks himself whenever he is not sleeping. He licks himself more than Britney Spears licks her jello shot glass clean. All that licking leads to a decent build up of hair that, surprise, does not digest so well. Welcome Linda Blair, the cat. He yacks hairballs like a Pez dispenser. He is particularly fond of Sultan's computer room, sometimes the theater room, and the hallway just outside our bedroom. There is nothing quite like stepping in a squishy ball of yack when you have no caffeine in your body and are discombobulated from a bad night's sleep due to David Hasselhoff nightmares. Leah is a straight up Yack-O-Matic. She eats her little Iams kibble at lightning speed, skipping the annoying task of chewing. Un-chewed catfood spells projectile INSTANTANEOUS puking. She pukes a perfectly formed food trail right in front of the bowls. YUM! I think she eats so fast because she is secretly afraid Issey and his posse of imaginary buddies are going to come up behind her and gang bang her. Just a theory..
Santa, being the genius fat bastard he is, decided it would be a super idea to get a couple of guinea pigs for Christmas. They appeared in Sultan's theater room after a Christmas Story moment where we "heard a scratching noise" and found them with a big bow on the enormous cage. This cage is mammoth, it could probably house Gary Coleman, now that he's fat and not-famous but still really short. Now one of the guinea pigs was really small, in hindsight, not a keeper. This little precious animal decided that the middle of Christmas dinner would be the perfect time to bite it, right in the middle of the food dish. No shit. Rigormortis little fluffy rodent, buck teeth flaring, making Isabella curl in the fetal position, dissolved in tears. Grandpa kindly reminds her, "Isabella, don't worry. A guinea pig is just a disposable pet anyways!" Nice. Santa, again a genius, got the 14-day Petsmart guarantee on the poor little guy. So after Linny#2 was brought home, it became cage mates with Swiffer, who truly resembles a black floor mop. I am going to comb her 4-inch mane (not exaggerating) over to one side, place her at a tiny desk, and have a tape recording of "You're FIRED!" so I can win $10,000 on America's Funniest Home Videos. Last week I took both little piggies to an "exotic pet vet" who specializes in holistic medicine and has degrees in both acupuncture AND chiropractic science FOR ANIMALS. The kicker is that he looks and talks exactly like Ned Flanders from the Simpsons. Okilee-dokilee-doo! He gave Swiffer some antibiotics for a respiratory infection/parasites in her dookie, some diuretic to reduce the fluid in her chest, and echinacea and garlic to enhance her appetite. I think it has weed in it, judging by the level of munchies Swiffer gets when she eats a few drops of this. She eats her plate of lettuce, peppers, fresh cilantro, and baby carrots like Star Jones used to snarf biscuits and gravy.
So Pierre the Papillon came into our life in May. He was as tiny as a stuffed animal and got stepped on a few times before he perfected his "I'm-a-pussy-and-I'll-whine-like-a-little-bitch-if-you-touch-me" cry. He is a husky 7 lbs. now and even after his "castration", he still humps like a champ. A little, fluffy, gay one, but a champ. (On a sidenote I tried to get a two-fer on the little snippy snip but Sultan was onto me when I tried to lure him into a harness with a Milkbone instead of whipped cream and our usual handcuffs..) Isabella tries to imitate his "huggy dance" on my arm. Sorry, Pierre, my arm will not give you the happy ending you cannot even achieve anymore. His fur has grown into a little fluffy tuxedo bib. His ears are very large for his tiny body but are pretty damn charming. Papillon means "butterfly" in French, hence the name. Sultan suggested Michel and Jean Luc or even Claude but I would have felt bad for him. So Pierre seemed respectable but toy-doggish enough. He does NOT enjoy clothing or the little faux-leopard bag I bought him. If he didn't have to sit in his pen at night I think he might even give me a Cleveland Steamer for the attempts I've made to Paris Hiltonize him. Except I wear panties and have much better tits.
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