A Brother Named “Fluffy.”

Fluffy My brother

Some kids are lucky enough to get a dog or a cat for a pet. Some kids get a cow or a horse. Some are limited to a fish or a hamster.

I got a brother.

I wanted to name him “Fluffy” but I was not allowed to name him. No, no . . . THAT privilege went to the people who dropped him off in my life and made me responsible for feeding and exercising him . . . not to mention house training him. If someone ever tries to give you a pet that they have already named, NEVER, accept it. That means this is a “insert type of pet here” that someone else tried to love and they failed. It is true, sometimes it is the fault of the people who bought the darn thing, but most likely, especially if the pet is a brother, the fault is completely in the pet.

Someone is trying to pass off their broken lame pet on you.

Mine did not do a single trick that anyone cared about. That is because no-one cares what you can stick up your nose, or what weird sounds you can make with your arm pitt. Passing gas and burping are NOT tricks either.

Mine was forever doing stupid things.

That is all that needs to be said about that statement. No need going into detail about all the kinds of stupid things he did. He did them. ALL of them.

Mine was a tattle tale. He was forever telling everyone everything. Some of it mattered to me and some did not. It doesn’t matter to what degree your pet disobeys or ignores you, you still have a responsibility to teach your pet the right things to do. I used electro shock therapy.

They didn’t work.

Stun guns don’t work either.

Medication was pointless, even when we buried it in his Kraft Dinner, he refused to swallow it. Some of my grandmothers best linens, walls and other children are still stained with neon orange because of his projectile spitting.

Pets are meant to teach a child about love, and responsibility. They are meant to be part of the warm hearted memories and video reels that you one day pull out and start to cry remembering what a great pet “Fluffy” was and all the good times you shared. Pets are family members that are with you through some of the best times in your life celebrating, and then comforting you through some of the worst. This is the circle of life. Norman Rockwell drew pictures of this. Lassie and Old Yeller were the poster dogs for the whole movement.

This is a wonderful, good, heartwarming thing.

Everyone knows that is how it is supposed to work.  Everyone, except my pet, “Fluffy:” –  the brother. (I don’t care what the rest of the world called him.)  It is possible that Fluffy had special needs and that I had too high of expectations for him.   Wah Wah Wah … he should have tried harder.

That is why I am asking now, that people the whole world over, join with me in a movement to ban brothers from the family home where they suck at being pets and just make little girls grow up hating men and the people who dumped their problem pet off on them.

THIS is why the world is upside down and all over the place and makes no sense.

Send your donations to me.

Thank you.

(and mom, dad . . . I am not ever coming home again until you put him down.  Enough is enough.)

The Budgie That Never Returned In The Spring, at Least Not To The Prairies.

road kill 2

I wanted a budgie.

I think I wanted one because they came in pretty colours but also because they were not cows.  I had kind of had my fill of cows.  Dairy will do that to you.

Have I ever told you how much I resent the hell out of the fact that when I was growing up no-one talked about being lactose intolerant or needing gluten free everything.  That shit is awesome.  I guarantee some girl locked away somewhere in the deep farm land of Saskatchewan came up with that stuff.  If I had heard of it, I would have read up, become the best lactose intolerant, gluton reactionariest  poster child that ever lived.  I would have got me a note from the doctor excusing me from all things farm and caught the first one horse pony out of there.

But I didn’t have options.  I was stuck.  So I wanted a budgie.   Some kids did drugs to rebel,  I wanted a budgie instead of a cow. Continue reading

Snowball’s Own Private Hell.


My children grew up thinking I knew everything because I came from the farm.  It is an easy mistake to make, people frequently turn to farmers for answers, knowing that we are wise in the ways of the wheat and the cow.  Sometimes I wish I had been a city girl so that I could just walk the streets like normal and not be constantly sought out for my wisdom.  It is such a burden.  Like I can never ever live on the top of a mountain.

My kids would ask me, “What kind of crop is that mommy?”  They turned to me for everything.  So naturally when they saw a white cow, they asked, “What do you call a white cow mommy?

My answer? Continue reading

My Pet Goldfish – Fluffy.


My pet goldfish “fluffy” was very special to me. He was much much more than just some pretty fins and some scales.

In a landlocked wheat field of a world where almost every other animal was routinely herded with a horse, a tractor, or whatever humans were not combining or picking rocks . . . he was refreshingly different.

For one thing, he blew bubbles.

And he was a great listener. Continue reading

Another Really True Story About An Unfortunate Mishap With My Blue Budgie.

Fluffy My Budgie

I was sitting around the pool with hubby in RL and admiring his budgy smugglers when I remembered!   I rushed right here to the ‘puter to share … well technically I called my therapist first ’cause I promised to share any memory return – that is always soooo important after a series of shock treatments.

It was a cold and rainy dark dark night and Walmart was still open.  This was before the unfortunate incident with the police, the underwear and the taser guns and the lifetime banning so I was still allowed in the store.  In fairness to me, Madonna made me do it.  I just thought if I put my hello kitty training bra and matching thong over my clothes I could multi task . . . shop AND date.  I thought the outfit said wayy more than some profile on a dating site ever could.  I think everyone over reacted.  THAT woman who was screaming for a “clean-up” in the aisle I was in and pointing at me has always hated me ever since I took all the Hamburger Helper at the last big Grocery sale-o-rama and scramble.   She didn’t even have the mic or the authority to be screaming like that. Continue reading