The Loony Bin
(
loonies@bloodaxe.com
)
Mon, 24 Mar 03 02:09:35 -0000
Hiya Loonies...
Here is the lowdown - you know that you are owned by pets when...
Wishes & Dreams...
- ANDREA
xx
******* THE LOONY BIN **** loonies@bloodaxe.com *******
Archive: http://www.theloonies.co.uk/
*********** ANDROMEDA **** Internet Goddess ***********
------- Forwarded foolishness follows -------
YOU KNOW YOU ARE OWNED BY PETS WHEN...
You have a mental list of people you'd like to spay or neuter.
You stopped at a house with a "Free Puppies" sign in the yard to have an
educational 'chat', and your kids had to post your bail.
Running out of paper towels is a household crisis.
You not only know all the characteristics of a good 'stool', and you
discuss them at dinner.
You consider 'The Culture Clash' your bible and believe the chairman of
Disney Corp. is the antichrist.
You have a bumper sticker that reads: "My Bull Terrier Is Smarter Than
Your Graduate Student."
You can compare and contrast the finer elements of different kitty
litter brands the way some people talk about wine.
You pray they will someday manufacture Teflon furniture.
You have phone calls forwarded to PetsMart.
When your animal projectile vomits, you compare the speed and trajectory
with previous incidents, and if the statistics fall short, you worry if
the animal is okay.
You absentmindedly pat people on the head or scratch them behind their
ears.
Given the choice of having your teeth cleaned or their teeth cleaned,
they get their teeth cleaned.
You not only allow pets on the couch, guests have to sit on the floor
because the dog has "territorial issues."
Your spouse missed the final game of the World Series because the cat
wanted to watch his favorite video, "Birds of North America."
Anytime the animal appears lethargic, you go on-line and investigate
vetmed websites, pose questions to your address book and on e-lists,
and by the time you digest all the information and field the
correspondence, the animal has torn out the window screens, masticated
a couch cushion and left something disgusting in your favorite pair of
shoes.
You have a special uniform you wear for "flame wars" on e-lists and know
that being told to "get a life" means you have pushed all the right
buttons.
Your chatroom handle is "Queen of Spayeds."
You and your vet are on a first name basis and he genuflects when you
enter the waiting room.
His daughter at Harvard refers to you as 'Auntie'.
You needed a prescription to recover from 'Old Yeller'.
You've forwarded more warnings about the dangers of chocolate, onions
and mistletoe than the National Centers for Disease Control have issued
about anthrax and smallpox.
You wear white year 'round, not because you are flaunting a fashion law
or belong to a religious sect, but because you have a Dalmatian, Great
Pyrenees, Samoyed or white Persian at home.
The world would never guess from your "dog or kittyspeak" posts to
e-lists that in reality you are chairman of the IBM corporation.
Vacuum cleaners in your household don't just die, they go out with more
smoke and noise than the Taliban.
By the time you investigate different flea control products, their
advantages and potential risks, natural versus chemical methods, and
study the life cycle of the flea, any fleas have died of old age.
You tell your children to "heel!" in a grocery store.
For relaxation, you went mall hopping with your girlfriends. Your eyes
glazed over when you saw a sign in front of a pet shop, "20% Off All
Puppies & Kittens" and you slapped three security guards before they got
you safely contained in the manager's office.
You spend eleven months of the year preaching an appreciation and
understanding of canine behavior and the nature of the dog, then you
stick fake reindeer antlers on the dog and photograph him for your
Christmas Card.
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