Pet Monologues

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 »

Federal act: Big penalties for animal fighting. Update, April 11, 2007: Great news! Last night, the Senate unanimously passed the Animal Fighting Prohibition Enforcement Act! Now all that is left is for President Bush to sign the bill into law. Read the rest of this entry »

I awoke in the gray of dawn, blinking hard to get my bearings. I was in a small nylon tent on a rocky outcrop jutting into Lake Superior. Through the open flap all I could see was black water meeting vast purple sky.

Besides me, snoring peacefully in his sleeping bag, was my college dorm mate Kurt Iverson, whom everyone called Woodstock, a nickname whose origins not even he knew. The two of us had forged a fast friendship the previous year as freshmen, despite all odds. He was a northern Michigan country kid, lean and angular, with an abiding love of hunting and fishing. He tied his own trout flies and could skin a rabbit in two minutes flat. Read the rest of this entry »

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