Pet Monologues

A “campfire” story taken from writing.com

[Introduction] Greetings!

note: Hooves of Fire! = author, WRITEING = Demon Squirrel

I, Hooves, have risked life and limb to travel to the deepest recesses of evil for this exclusive (and I hope Emmy winning) interview with the one and only Demon Squirrel. Due to the extreme evil of his countenance, I cannot look directly at him. He will be behind a curtain, speaking through the voice of Ercole who has kindly volunteered to channel the horrible demon’s answers to all of us.

This campfire will consist of me asking the questions (one at a time) and His Evilness answering through the Writeing of ercole, keeping his responses to 5 sentences or less if possible.

And now for the first question as soon as the campfire invitation is accepted. Read the rest of this entry »

Serving up quality prose about animals has been a mission of Pet Monologues from the start. Below are three of many contributing authors who provide our stimulating content. Find out a little bit more about them by clicking on their links. If you wish to contribute or wish to send stories/authors to Pet Monologues, it would be greatly appreciated. PM

Lucia Blinn The stories: Who was Harvey Krane?
John Grogan. The stories: Bringing in breakfast.
Eric Hawxby. The stories: Dead pet stories.
Ward McBurney. The stories: 1) Stupid. 2) Loftus. 3) Get up.

Alright I’ll do it ma. Jes’. Always bothering me to do stuff for ya. God..Why can’t you ask Charles to do it? (Charles is Biff’s brother) Ma? Why can’t you ask Charles to do it? How come I always have to be the one to clean up the dogs poop in the yeard? He never does it!

I know it’s my dog but everybody plays with Sheba so why shouldn’t everybody chip in to clean up her poop? It’s not fair ma and you know it. Then nobody is allowed to pet her. If nobody wants to clean her poop up, then nobody is allowed to pet her.

You can’t return Sheba ma! Come on! Alright, alright I’ll clean up her poop but I still think that this isn’t fair. No, ma! I said I’m gonna clean it. I’m cleaning it now! Just putting on my sneakers.

You happy???

Source:Monologueblogger.com

After sadly losing our Squack, a lovebird, my husband and I did not think of any other pets. Then one day in the Boca News there was a picture of the most beautiful little dog I’ve ever seen. I told my husband that guy is ours. Well, that guy was from a pet mill and Miami Rescue had picked him and several of his friends and relatives away from those awful people. Unfortunately, that picture was very deceiving. Read the rest of this entry »

Scrapper arrived with Kitty I in 1988. He was a big tough ex-feral trapped and snipped aged 10. He had beaten up other cats in the area, but was now down on his luck. He must have been a pet originally and been allowed to stray and go wild. Neutered, cured of fleas, ringworm and a variety of fight and bite wounds, he had sat in the cat shelter for many months awaiting a person who looked beyond his mangled features.
He was a black cat but rather dusty and motheaten. Scrapper sat forlornly in a cat basket for several days, unwilling to leave it while we were there. After a week he suddenly decided that enough was enough and came to watch Blue Peter with me on the sofa. From then on he was my little black shadow and walked to heel! Read the rest of this entry »

Photo of myself in the same wheelbarrow with a now full-grown Sparky.

Sparky was a gift to me from my father on my 8th birthday: July 29, 1955. This was a year after our last dog, Kim, was killed by a car.

Sparky was six weeks old, born on June 17. I think I remember that because Pop’s birthday was July 17 and Mom and Pop’s aniversary was August 17. I think Pop chose Sparky because he had the same coloring as Kim: white with a black head and highlights of brown around he eyes. He also had a black spot on his back. Neutering male dogs was hardly ever done in those days, so naturally I spent a lot of time chasing after Sparky, just like I did chasing after Kim. Unlike Kim, however, Sparky would come eventually, but only when Mom called him. Although I loved Sparky like a brother, he was more of a mama’s dog. That’s probably also because Mom was better at feeding him. Read the rest of this entry »

It looked like a river, and in fact it was a river for all intents and purposes. That is, to God it could be a trickle, a gutter stream, or a sewer rapid; and assuredly he could merely step across it with no problem. But Rat Shipley would have to find that certain kind of bamboo, which Haus always says works great for rafts. He would have to whittle away at these rods with a skinning knife - the only remotely sharp object on him - and then he would have to lash these poles together with hair or shoelaces or maybe these long reeds that seem to be growing on the banks here.

And hoping for the best, Rat Shipley must then shove off, for he can not go back. Forward is the only direction despite not being able to see the other side. Forward across this river…or what appears to be a river.

For all he knows it could be an ocean.

An entry taken from writing.com, a book titled Rat Shipley, written by Piggle.

I woke up at 6:30 this morning to take my ex-roommate’s cat to the vet. I guess he’s my cat now. His name is Max and he’s a very skinny orange tabby cat. He came complete with a fifteen second memory span and he has only one facial expression, which is blank. I often wonder if he was somebody’s genetic cloning experiment. That or if he is suffering from fetal alcohol syndrome. He’s just a living cat with barely a hint of character.

I’m trying to give him a personality but it’s difficult. I wonder if my techniques are working. The first technique is to hold him tightly against my chest and speak nonsense to him, kiss his face really hard, and then let him jump out of my arms to freedom. This does not seem to have any effect on him. He just looks mildly bewildered. The second technique is to spank his rump playfully. Again, there’s not much response. Not even the cliché look of superiority most normal cats constantly wear. But I haven’t picked Max up in days and have hardly petted him. I’ve even locked him out of my room. I’m disgusted by him right now. To get my mind off him I think about today’s homework. My teacher wants me to write about something I know a lot about. I glance at a picture of Evan, framed and sitting on my nightstand, where I can see it every night before I go to sleep. I think about Evan’s life and its tragic ending. I wonder if I should write about him. Read the rest of this entry »

This is a story about two twenty-something women, friends, sharing an apartment. This is a true story but names have been changed as you have come to expect. Jane worked at an electronics manufacturer. Mary worked at a book publishing company. Jane was a bit of a home body. Mary was usually out and about. It came to pass that Jane’s boss needed a cat sitter as he was going on vacation. Read the rest of this entry »

I had a small Chihuahua dog. It was especially cold this particular day, and my wife and I had to leave the house overnight, but we could not take our dog with us. Gopher (the dog’s name) usually stayed outside, but we were afraid of coyotes or some wild animals getting him with our not being around. I had constructed a doggy door in our back door, and it stayed closed most of the time, but now, I had decided to put it into service for our pet, so that he could go outside to take care of business, yet stay in the house to stay out of the severe cold. So a plan was born, and we were satisfied that Gopher would be OK for the day without enlisting any neighbors help. Read the rest of this entry »