To My Neighbor's Dog: I Hate You!

When I was a young boy, I had a neighbor who was an avid animal lover. He had many pets—in fact, he had way too many pets. Because I was surrounded by these pet-lovers, I developed a strong love for animals at a very tender age. I remember those afternoons that I would visit his house just to play with his exceptionally cute pussycats. These cats would purr whenever I came around; they would all try to get close to me for a rub-down. I was young and quite impressed with the way these exquisitely groomed cats would surround my person and take turns at receiving a child's intent and lavish petting. They were nice quiet creatures and extremely beautiful (I am deliberately emphasizing their physical beauty here because there are some cats that are frankly hideous and antagonistic)—so you could imagine that as a young boy of 9, I'd love their tranquil company.

There was a particular spotless white cat in the bunch (I could easily remember 15 cats) that took a special liking to me. Sometimes, when I looked into that pussy's eyes, I could imagine that it understood my soul for I was like a parent to this cat. This cat would literally fight bigger cats just to secure a position on my lap. At a point, without much ceremony, other cats would be content to lay all around me whilst reserving my lap for this adorable white cat. My neighbor noticed this rather quickly but did not say much about it. Then one day, my neighbor asked me bluntly whether I wanted to own that cat. Of course I did, but I knew I had to check with my parents first. I told him that I'd give him my answer the following day.

I could scarcely contain my happiness until my father came back from work. No sooner had he removed his work clothes for the day and settled down than I jumped at him and told him my tale taking due diligence not to implicate myself. My father was the sort of person who corrects by asking you questions till your error becomes plain. He was more interested in understanding the circumstances surrounding me neighbor's kind gesture. Now that I think of it, there may have been a reason why his reaction wasn't congratulatory—or in the least bit—one of masked pleasure. Surveying me calmly, he asked faintly:

Dad: So you are saying that our neighbor thinks you are fit to have your own pet cat?

Now, knowing the type of person my dad is, a resounding affirmation to that question (borne out of immature and boyish exhilaration) would not have passed muster. He would then commence a most methodical disassembling of sequential scenarios till he got to a fault. I knew where he was going.

Me: No, all he did was ask me if I wanted to own one; I guess because he has too many. I told him that I needed to ask your permission though.

Dad: But you never mentioned to me that you liked cats.

Me: I didn't know that I'd like cats till I played with some of his. Now, there's this one I call Lion....

Dad: Oh, so now you have been granted liberty to name his cats?

Me: No, he probably has other names for the cats but there was something fearless about this one I named Lion; and that's the one he now wants to give me.

Dad: Obinna, don't you think you are too young to own a living animal? You are only 9 years old. How will you take care of it?

Me: Well, our neighbor will give me pointers if I need one. All I need is for you to say that it is okay for me to run along and fetch that cat.

My dad didn't utter another word for close to five minutes. Then he told me something that I found absolutely mystifying. He looked at me tenderly and told me that I was too clumsy to own a cat and that he did not think it was a wise decision for me to start owning pets. But how could he know whether I'd be great with this pet or not? As far as I can tell, he had never seen the way those pets warmed up to me; he had never witnessed the way I took special care of them. I was convinced that he was being grossly unfair! I was on the verge of tears. My mom was moved with compassion even though she clearly agreed with my father's assessment. I was sent out of the room to go and attend to other matters. It was at that time, I gathered, that my mom interceded on my behalf. When I was called back, my father declared clairvoyantly that I could go and get the cat even though he was sure that the cat may not survive under my supervision.

Without further ado, I rushed over and announced the glad tidings to my neighbor.

He then went and fetched Lion and handed him over and I walked off with that beautiful creature under my arm. I was clearly the king of the world at that point. I got home to a little celebration because everyone was curious to see this thing of beauty for which my father had reversed himself on his age-old principle of being cautious and civil even when dealing with immediate neighbors. You could see the happiness on many faces as I held up this cat. It purred gently and was so child-like in its devotion to me that even my dad managed to smile. I played with, and showed off my new friend, Lion, for the rest of the day. That night, Lion would share my dinner and bed.

In the morning of the next day, Lion was dead.

I couldn't stop blaming myself for it. Maybe I had rolled around in my sleep and crushed it; maybe it shouldn't have eaten human food—after all, as a cat it was supposed to eat only mice, I thought. Perhaps, it was too cold in my room. A thousand and one thoughts chased themselves around in my mind. The next day, when parents heard the sad news, they gave themselves looks which communicated their disappointment more than words could. I took the dead cat to the backyard and buried it. At that point, something inexplicable died in me. My eyes lost that glimmering je ne sais quoi that endeared me easily to animals. I think I lost a great deal of youthful innocence; a certain quality or appearance of fawning warmth and harmlessness which sensitive animals are attracted to. That day and at that early age I began to understand that the world can indeed be a cruel and unforgiving place. Since that incident, I have never thought of ever owning a pet again: even though from time to time, I may venture to rub or play with others' pets if they were in my vicinity.

With that out of the way, I want to state categorically that over the years I have grown fonder of dogs than cats. Nevertheless, I hate my current neighbor's pit-bull terrier. That is one stupid dog that deserves to be put to sleep. I can't stand this dog and I find myself asking Providence for grace in order to resist the strong urge to use that dog for football practice. Yes, I mean that there are days when I just want to kick that dog high into the air.

For starters, that dog is as ugly as sin! A dog may be a man's best companion or friend; but this dog looked like a creature of ghoulish nightmares. Its face looks like it was bashed in by a toy truck—a real truck would crush this pathetic dog—or maybe, it was dropped on its face immediately it was born and it never recovered from the injury. It is an irascible cur secondly: yapping and barking at strangers and regulars alike and scampering around like it is the new sheriff in town. Besides, it is puny and bemoans the fact that it does not inspire fear and trepidation in the hearts of people. Its hideous face may serve to keep people a respectable distance away from this demented loony dog but everyone clearly knew he's little; and his bark is worse than his bite. I think this dog is acutely aware of these limitations and this may have triggered an egotistical response in this dog. I say this because this dog has now developed an unfortunate penchant for running up to people unannounced, growling and snapping at their heels like he intends to deliver a ferocious bite ONLY to turn away in full flight when you turn around to confront him!  This is probably the way this feeble, ill-mannered creature has contrived to throw his weight around—showing up at the most bizarre time and circumstances.

For example, a few nights ago, I was coming back from a trip to the Shopper's Food Warehouse, carrying a lot of kitchen cabinet and refrigerator items and was casually walking to my door when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. It was already late, and I never thought I'd see a loose animal bounding straight at me at this time of the night. Reflexively, I dropped the precious things in my plastic bags and hurried (read ran) to the more illuminated area immediately in front of my door and adopted a defensive posture. I couldn't decipher what manner of creature was prowling around in the darkness; and if I was going to be attacked by some beast, I better be looking straight at the animal as it came. What else but that heavy-on-grunts-short-on-action, lily-livered pooch appeared! I was filled with righteous rage. I ran after that naughty dog and it fled like a lone hyena pursued by a pride of lions! In the end, I had to pick up the rest of my groceries—yes, together with the damaged ones!

I am going to file a complaint with my neighbor very soon, or else, that dog will be discovered on a George Foreman grill one of these days! Ok, I keed.. I keed..Not gonna hurt that retarded canine, but it definitely needs a leash and some obedience/manners classes! I don't want to take anything to the city council just yet.

So Casper (that's the dog's name), if you are reading this, I say "Damn you, you miserable bitch!" I hate you! Yes, whatchu gon do abou' dat? One of these days, if you keep getting on my nerves, I will put your picture on Youtube so that all the other dogs in Doggy-Dog Land will see what a miserable clown you are: you whimpering, ill-tempered Arsehat!

tags: pitbull terrier  dogs  cats  casper  neighbor  pets  

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