Animals are Assholes, an Introduction

Introduction: Upon meeting me, you find out very quickly that I love animals. Adore them. In fact, I’ve been accused of liking and caring about animals more than I like and care about people. Which isn’t true. I just like and care about them more than I like and care about most people. See what I did there? If you don’t pick up on this part of my character by context clues (I don’t often get far into a conversation without bringing up some type of animal), you’ll likely figure it out quickly by my actions. I might dart away from you mid-sentence in the street in order to pet a dog being walked, regardless of the owner’s interest in having me do so, or I might fall off a bar stool in an attempt to lean over to pet the ornery bar-cat that’s circling my legs. (Not that that’s happened. You’re so literal. I said it might happen.) And animals, almost always, love me right back. In fact, the few times I don’t go chasing down a dog on walk, they often pull their owners over to me, as if being dragged by the force of a magnet of loooove. (Awesome analogy. Must find ways to use that in everyday conversation. )

However, it’s dawned on me (a little late, I must admit), that sometimes animals are assholes. There, I said it. They can be real, 100%, you-just-hurt-my-feelings-you-little-brat and possibly scarred me for life (literally), capital A, Assholes.  Let me illustrate this with a few real-life experiences over the next few days of posts.