- submitted by D. Lloyd on 05/07/2009
Suburban Outcast: Why I Hate Pets
By Delia Lloyd
On many of the world's most pressing issues, most people sort neatly into one of two camps: Coke vs. Pepsi. Boxers vs. Briefs. Yankees vs. Mets. You get the idea. As a long-time denizen of the suburbs, I'd like to add another category to this list: Pet vs. Anti-pet. And at the risk of alienating half my friends and neighbors, I have a confession to make: I'm anti-pet.
I was reminded of this recently at a neighborhood get-together. We were sitting on the deck, enjoying some cocktails, when someone pulled a photo out from her purse. "Guys," she said, breathlessly. "I can't wait any longer..."
And sure enough, it wasn't a picture of her daughter, or her newly remodeled kitchen, or even (God forbid) her husband; it was a picture of the Chocolate Labrador she'd just adopted. In a matter of seconds, everyone followed suit, nodding and cooing over the veritable museum of pooch snapshots emerging from their wallets.
Everyone, that is, except me.
Like so many things, my antipathy towards pets likely stems from various childhood traumas. In one early primal scene, my older brother and sister put me in a dress and forced me to marry our dog, Hector (himself decked out in my brother's underpants.) The deal was sealed with a kiss on the snout.
Later on, my brother undertook an experiment with one of our many cats to see how much weight it could gain. He began secretly feeding it extra packets of Tender Vittles, while I stood by-clipboard in hand-duly documenting its progress on the scale. This was right around the time that my sister decided to shove a hapless Hector into the middle of a pond to see if he could swim.
Even without those scarring experiences, however, I think I'd still dislike pets today. To begin with, you've got all those messy bodily functions. Call me crazy, but I'm with Jerry Seinfeld on this. Seinfeld once noted that 500 years from now when outer space aliens wish to depict Earth in the late 20th century they'll cut to a shot of humans walking behind their dogs with plastic bags and tiny shovels. As Seinfeld himself might quip, "What's wrong with this picture?" Amen, brother.
Pets are also so much work: they need food...they need exercise...they require medical attention (a friend's cat is currently on anti-stress medication). And then you have all those ancillary concerns: what to do when you go on vacation...how to break it to your kids when the pet dies...you even have to police your pet's sex life.
Our wanton canine Casanova Hector (yes, the same to whom I'd been joined in holy matrimony) sired countless bastard children in the New Jersey suburb where I grew up. I had to endure endless berating from heretofore unknown neighbors:
"So you're Hector's owner!" they'd say, in an accusatory tone.
"But he's his own dog!" I wanted to protest. "I can't make those choices for him!"
And, these days, it's not just dogs and cats that are in vogue, either.
"Thank Goodness you're here!" a neighbor exclaimed recently, as I crossed her threshold. "Chestnut is missing!"
"Chestnut?" I repeated, joining the rescue mission.
"Yes, our pet rat, Chestnut. Here, grab a flashlight-let's find him!"
My flashlight fell to the floor. "You have a pet rat?" I asked, incredulously.
"Domesticated rodents are very intelligent!" she replied, as if that spoke for itself.
Then there was my friend who house-sat for a year in suburban Michigan, rent free. The only catch? She had to feed the family's pet snake. And guess what Snakey liked to eat? You guessed it: dead mice. Which they kept in the freezer (right next to the popsicles). Just toss a couple of those babies into the microwave, set it to "defrost" and Snakey was all set. Yum. (Between the rodents and the reptiles, I think I'm about ready to pop some of my friend's cat's anti-stress meds).
I know, I know. I sound heartless. Pets are loyal, affectionate and brave. They teach children valuable lessons about care and responsibility. More to the point, my anti-pet viewpoint makes me a complete pariah in the suburb where I live (Lord knows, my snaps of my human children just can't compete!)
What can I say? I also prefer Coke. And boxers. And the Yankees. It's just the way I am.
Delia Lloyd is a writer/journalist based in London. Her essays have appeared in The International Herald Tribune, The Christian Science Monitor, and The Guardian Abroad....read more rants
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