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| Homeless Pets |
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The solution to the homeless problem is thinking big.  Try thinking outside the box.
There are three reasons Adam was having a bad day. Firstly, his cat ran away. Zissou had been everything to him: friend, psychiatrist, teddy bear, brother, child, and even, more recently, lover. He was way better than your favorite cat in every way, especially cuteness. Compared to Zissou, all other cats were chaff—he alone was wheat, wide-eyed and adorable, singing constantly with birdlike chirrups. Even his poop was cute. But now he was gone. Secondly, he had an article due which he had yet to start because he didn’t actually remember what it was about. All he had to go on was a note on the dry erase board in the office, writ by his editor’s hand, saying “Adam- Homeless Pets,” and he was sure that had to mean something. Lastly, he had just stepped in shit. Right outside the office, on the sidewalk, in broad daylight, while just minding his business. His foot landed right in it, squarer than 8-bit breasts, or phone-sex with Carl Sagan, or a third joke. At first, he wondered whether the turd’s origins were animal or human, but his thoughts soon changed to the homeless. For, indeed, homelessness must be rampant if one can no longer take for granted that a random street turd is only dog shit. As if his grief and despair weren’t bad enough, now he felt selfish, too. He hadn’t really thought much about the homeless before. They seemed a lackadaisical bunch, content and lying around, perking up only at the jingle of change, or the whiff of food. He tried to keep an open mind, but couldn’t help thinking that they lacked ambition. In his mind, if you’re going to ask strangers for money, you might as well shoot a little higher than spare change. He thought, If a homeless man ever asked me for a hundred bucks, I’d be so impressed, I’d pay. They need to learn to think big. A small transient lounged near the bus stop, and Adam couldn’t stop staring. He had a scruffy, orange face and a pleading gaze. He uttered a string of wind chime noises and pawed at the air, and Adam thought about his cat. For the first time, he saw the man for what he was: not an urban camping enthusiast, but a poor, helpless, needy creature. The little man looked back at him with wide eyes. The article came to mind. Adam approached him. “Shush now, little mister. You can come home with me.” whispered Adam as he scooped the bum into his arms. “I think I’ll call you Boba.” It took an hour for Boba to calm down once Adam got him home. At first, he ran around the perimeter of the apartment, sniffing at everything, scurrying away when Adam got close. He was more nervous than a man with diarrhea at a hugging convention. But gradually, he tired, and retreated to a corner, cooing softly. He warily accepted a glass of milk, but waited until Adam left the room before lapping it up. In the kitchen, Adam cracked open a can of Fancy Feast. He heard Boba stir, and then the little man appeared in the doorway, ears perked with curiosity. The smell of the Salmon Pate crept across the room, and Boba’s stomach groaned like Jesus watching a Christian Rock concert, or a second joke, or Glenn Beck doing stand-up. Adam set the can on the floor, and Boba crept toward it. As he ate, he even let Adam pet him. Trying to get Boba into the bathtub didn’t go as easily. He whirred and hissed and flailed his arms, clawing at the shower curtain. Adam was thoroughly soaked by the time he got Boba scrubbed clean, but his spirits were feeling up for the first time all day. He couldn’t help laughing at how scrawny and bitter the little man looked when he was wet. After the bath, Boba licked himself for awhile and took a nap. Adam watched him sleep peacefully, and took notes for the article:
In bed that night, with Boba wedged between his legs at the foot of the bed, Adam felt like a good person. After about a week, however, Adam was beginning to regret his charitable intentions. For starters, Boba did not seem to understand the litter box concept, but he had no such qualms with Adam’s laundry baskets. With all the laundry Adam had to do, quarters were about as common as a leprechaun fart. He also threw up a lot, never in the same place, but always on the carpet. Boba left his mark everywhere, in urine, vomit, blood, spit, semen, and feces. It was like living in the wake of a Mötley Crüe concert. Shit was everywhere. And Boba was constantly hungry. In the mornings, he pawed at Adam’s face, sniffing and sneezing until all hope for sleep was gone. And all day, when not otherwise occupied with soiling something, he would walk in circles, chattering and howling for food. Adam’s budget strained like Oprah’s couch. He did some math and found that owning one homeless person is equivalent to owning fourteen cats, but is in no way as cute. Then, the day before the article was due, Adam found Zissou basking in the windowsill. The cat offered no explanation as to his whereabouts, but Adam forgave him anyways. Adam left Boba at the bus stop where he had found him. He gave him a barometer and a cardboard sign saying, “Atmospheric Pressure Readings- $100.” He tussled Boba’s hair, and with only a slight hesitation, went back home, feeling like a good enough person. The next day, the editor came to the office to find the article on his desk. It read: “Homeless Pets: a bad idea.”  |
Comments
It's not news, it's a work of fiction (I hope), and has a ridiculous premise. I'd say again, with a resounding "yes," this was intended to be funny. And it has provoked me to think of the homeless as being treated worse than pets, which makes me even more irritated by both cat and dog people alike. Feeding animals before feeding people only makes sense to me if one plans on feeding the animals to all the hungry people.