GBA
08-31-2006, 01:45 PM
Fighting like cats and dogs
Two TOC staffers go snout-to-snout with diatribes about their least-favorite beasts.
Dogs: What a pain in the mutt
Dogs stink. No, really. When was the last time you got up close and personal with one of these tail-wagging turd machines and thought, “Boy, that blend of fresh drool and stale feces sure smells wonderful!”
You haven’t, because dogs can’t grasp the concept of grooming. They are dirty beasts that do not clean themselves of their own accord. They smell musty when dry and absolutely putrid when wet. Their breath: fetid. And they unleash their bowels wherever they please, leaving a steaming pile of poo that will probably be lustily devoured by another canine.
Loyal, brilliant Lassie was an anomaly; the average mutt is not nearly as bright. You know how you can fake a dog out by pretending to throw a Frisbee, and then Fido will seek it and look at you with the confused stare normally found in our President’s eyes? Case closed. Yes, you can train dogs, but success in staying put does not signify intelligence. After all, they’ll do anything for a Snausage.
Which leads me to my next point: Dogs are simpering crowd-followers, the ultimate people-pleasers. Worse yet, they are perverts. The big ones are habitual crotch-sniffers, stubbornly thrusting their moist snouts into the nether regions of innocent bystanders. And instead of noticing their golden retriever’s horrifying curiosity for all things pubic in public, dog owners are more likely to give some gee-shucks explanation: “Madison just loves to make new friends!” All the while, Madison’s slobbered-upon prey is going to look like he peed his pants for at least an hour.
More than anything else, our culture’s near-deification of the dog is not only bizarre, it is morally offensive. We spoil our animals at doggy spas (where they get twee services such as “pawdicures”), and we humiliate them in $175 “Bark Jacobs” doggy sweaters. It’s a little sick, really: There are people starving in this world, and yet many dogs live better lives. Perhaps there’s a Swiftian proposal in there somewhere….—Annie Tomlin
Cats: Meow so hate them
Let’s begin with the litter box. Litter box, as if it’s just a little container of harmless refuse. It’s a tray of shit, people. And it smells really, really bad. And it’s inside your house. “Oh, no,” you say, “I clean the litter box all the time. It doesn’t smell.” I hate to break it to you, my feline-worshipping friend, but you’re just so used to that foul stench that you don’t notice it anymore. But your friends do. And they talk all the time about how much your apartment stinks.
Furthermore, cats are bitches. Maybe that’s part of the allure for you masochistic cat people, but if there’s going to be one bitch in my house, it’s gonna be me. They don’t come when you call them, though they totally know you’re calling them. They just sit there, regarding you coolly, as if to say, “I acknowledge that you want me to sit on your lap, but I shan’t. Why? Because it’s entertaining to fuck with you.” And if you do manage to rassle one into your lap, and he placates you with a little purring to make you feel all important, you know you’re one innocently misplaced hand away from that cat going to crazy town and clawing your eyes out.
And how many dogs do you know that puke on your rug if you don’t feed them on time? Cats are vindictive little danderballs, and though they may be smarter than dogs, they use their smarts for evil, not good. Like helping witches cast spells. And hacking up hair balls in your favorite shoes.
But it’s really the cat people who piss me off. Hey, freaky cat lady with all the photos of your felines with the same damn expression of barely contained rage: Don’t think for one second that your cat gives a crap about you. If you dropped dead, Fluffykins would look up for a second, return to her nine-hour nap, maybe use your leg as a scratching post for a few days, then vomit on your face because she hasn’t been fed her Fancy Feast.
And that old wives’ tale about cats stealing the breath from sleeping babies? I, for one, totally believe it. —Laura Baginski
Two TOC staffers go snout-to-snout with diatribes about their least-favorite beasts.
Dogs: What a pain in the mutt
Dogs stink. No, really. When was the last time you got up close and personal with one of these tail-wagging turd machines and thought, “Boy, that blend of fresh drool and stale feces sure smells wonderful!”
You haven’t, because dogs can’t grasp the concept of grooming. They are dirty beasts that do not clean themselves of their own accord. They smell musty when dry and absolutely putrid when wet. Their breath: fetid. And they unleash their bowels wherever they please, leaving a steaming pile of poo that will probably be lustily devoured by another canine.
Loyal, brilliant Lassie was an anomaly; the average mutt is not nearly as bright. You know how you can fake a dog out by pretending to throw a Frisbee, and then Fido will seek it and look at you with the confused stare normally found in our President’s eyes? Case closed. Yes, you can train dogs, but success in staying put does not signify intelligence. After all, they’ll do anything for a Snausage.
Which leads me to my next point: Dogs are simpering crowd-followers, the ultimate people-pleasers. Worse yet, they are perverts. The big ones are habitual crotch-sniffers, stubbornly thrusting their moist snouts into the nether regions of innocent bystanders. And instead of noticing their golden retriever’s horrifying curiosity for all things pubic in public, dog owners are more likely to give some gee-shucks explanation: “Madison just loves to make new friends!” All the while, Madison’s slobbered-upon prey is going to look like he peed his pants for at least an hour.
More than anything else, our culture’s near-deification of the dog is not only bizarre, it is morally offensive. We spoil our animals at doggy spas (where they get twee services such as “pawdicures”), and we humiliate them in $175 “Bark Jacobs” doggy sweaters. It’s a little sick, really: There are people starving in this world, and yet many dogs live better lives. Perhaps there’s a Swiftian proposal in there somewhere….—Annie Tomlin
Cats: Meow so hate them
Let’s begin with the litter box. Litter box, as if it’s just a little container of harmless refuse. It’s a tray of shit, people. And it smells really, really bad. And it’s inside your house. “Oh, no,” you say, “I clean the litter box all the time. It doesn’t smell.” I hate to break it to you, my feline-worshipping friend, but you’re just so used to that foul stench that you don’t notice it anymore. But your friends do. And they talk all the time about how much your apartment stinks.
Furthermore, cats are bitches. Maybe that’s part of the allure for you masochistic cat people, but if there’s going to be one bitch in my house, it’s gonna be me. They don’t come when you call them, though they totally know you’re calling them. They just sit there, regarding you coolly, as if to say, “I acknowledge that you want me to sit on your lap, but I shan’t. Why? Because it’s entertaining to fuck with you.” And if you do manage to rassle one into your lap, and he placates you with a little purring to make you feel all important, you know you’re one innocently misplaced hand away from that cat going to crazy town and clawing your eyes out.
And how many dogs do you know that puke on your rug if you don’t feed them on time? Cats are vindictive little danderballs, and though they may be smarter than dogs, they use their smarts for evil, not good. Like helping witches cast spells. And hacking up hair balls in your favorite shoes.
But it’s really the cat people who piss me off. Hey, freaky cat lady with all the photos of your felines with the same damn expression of barely contained rage: Don’t think for one second that your cat gives a crap about you. If you dropped dead, Fluffykins would look up for a second, return to her nine-hour nap, maybe use your leg as a scratching post for a few days, then vomit on your face because she hasn’t been fed her Fancy Feast.
And that old wives’ tale about cats stealing the breath from sleeping babies? I, for one, totally believe it. —Laura Baginski