shilowallace: (no sense in girlish dreaming)
Shilo Wallace ([personal profile] shilowallace) wrote2012-02-13 02:31 pm
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[archive] LJ Writer's Block: Pet talk - 04.07.10

from the diary of Shilo Wallace
So STOP READING NOW...that means you, DAD. It's not like I can't tell when the LOCK has been broken!!!

If your pet could talk, what is the first thing s/he would say to you?

I guess this might be an easier question to answer if I, you know, had pets. That's not to say there aren't plenty of animals and things in my room, of course. The trouble is, though, that none of them are living. Which...well, when I put it that way, makes me think of this dark vintage comic book - Lenore, I think it is - about this little girl who has....I don't know, a bunch of dead cats. And other dead things. Things die around her, a lot. I'm not sure how, exactly. I could probably say I know how she feels, but I think the books usually try to make it seem funny. That things die around her a lot.

I'm not sure I get that.

Fortunately, a lot of the things I have around me that aren't living were never alive to begin with. That'd be my stuffed things. My toys, I mean. I don't know if I could say for sure what, exactly, they'd all want to say. Most of them, I guess, might say something like, "It's not like we asked your dad to buy us, either!" or "We appreciate that you don't do it anymore, but getting thrown around really sucks, you ought to know!" or maybe even, "Now that you're not sick, can you please stop stuffing pills into our folds and things?" I'm not sure how to respond to any of that, though. All I can really do is apologize for taking everything out on them and hope they understand that it was either them or my dad. And I think if I'd started taking things out on my dad sooner than, you know, I actually did...he might have. Um. Well, anyway. It's easier for them to get thrown around than it would have been for me. I hope they understand that.

When they were done voicing their gripes, I guess I'd hope they'd thank me for the good times. We did have a lot of very nice tea parties when I was little. Well, some of us, did. And I would hope that Rabbit might thank me for still letting him sleep in my bed and not always over on the settee with everyone else. I'm sure he knows I've always liked him best (even when I did throw him around or stuff half-taken pills in his pouch...), probably because he came first. He came at a time when I didn't mind getting stuffed toys for every single present. He didn't make me feel like a child. ...Also, he's the only one who's perfect for cuddling. Hippo and Lion are too fat and Monkey's arms are easy to get all tangled in a person's wig. (I learned all this the hard way.)

So Rabbit might say thanks, but no thanks, next time it's not just me sleeping in my bed because, despite being optimal cuddling size, he is easy to lose when there are other things to be hanging on to and then he just gets lost in the sheets and usually winds up between someone's legs and that's really just awkward for everyone. No one wants to say anything about that.

Or, well. Rabbit and I certainly don't.

Now, the other not-alive things (the one that are actually dead) that surround me are all bugs (save for my mom). Insects, actually, because like I've said, six legs is the maximum number of legs one should have. Unless one is an octopus, but then you aren't a bug at all, so you're okay. My insect collection is just that. A collection. Not a collection of pets because they're more like decorations than pets. I've caught a few that I've contemplated not sticking in the killing jar, right away, but what it's always come down to is that I've never really had any way to take care of them. And they're just another thing that my dad would have come up with another reason for me to not keep. Because they'd make me sick, if they were alive. But obviously, once I suffocate them and impale them on blocks of wood, then they won't make me sick anymore.

Right.

So. Really, I guess some of them might just say, "Shilo, why did you kill us? We could have been your friends! Can you please take these needles out of our backs so we can crawl around and not feel like we're being stabbed to death all the time?" And that makes me sad, especially since I can't fix it.

I don't really like this question, anymore. All it's done is make me feel bad and, big surprise, want a real pet. Even the butterfly cage dad bought me, a million years ago, was better than nothing. Even though he always yelled at me for trying to hold them. And we let them go, almost as soon as they'd hatched out of their cocoons. Or, at least, I guess I thought we did. Knowing him, he probably threw them away and made up a whole story about how we let them fly away, to bigger and better things, together.

The story of my life.

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