Write a story about your pet

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I pet spot
He wag
I pet spots spot
I wag
Spot pets Pete spot
Dog and fag

I remember you, thought of you yesterday. RIP Kafka :(

Here are my two little guys. One is very sweet and easygoing but lazy, and the dumbest cat I've ever met. He doesn't know how to open doors, even when they're already cracked. If he gets a claw caught in something, he can't work himself free. Bouncy balls are too difficult for him, but he'll chase after a ball if you roll it in a straight line. Really, his favorite thing is just lazing around with people. He will try to herd people to bed at night so he can settle in with you and snuggle.

His brother is a much better hunter, even though he's half blind. He's always zooming around the house chirping and wanting to start a game of chase. When he gets tired out, he likes to play goalie - he just lays down in the middle of the floor and bats balls back at you when you toss them his way. He gets lonely if you don't spend a lot of time playing with him, like a dog would.

They live with my parents, though. Really wish I had pets at my place. The unconditional love you get from animals is so comforting and has helped me through tough times when dealing with people would have been too much.
Losing a pet is heartbreaking. I'm so sorry for your loss.

He's too pure for my shitty prose.

It was 2008, I was still in high school, and he was more dog than we were prepared for.

A placid elderly Golden Retriever would have been more dog than we were prepared for. No one in the family had ever had a dog, and I'd had a rampant case of cynophobia since I was mauled by a loose dog on the school field, during gym class, when I was eight.

We had the pick of three puppies. Two sable boys, and one black and tan. The black and tan was the smallest. One of the sables was alert and lively and interacted with us. The other slept. We did not pick the one that slept, for fear it might be unwell. We did not pick the other sable. He was a little too rambunctious. Which left the little black and tan boy, who was the smallest of the remainder of the litter of nine, smaller than his sister, and we a ribby little thing when I picked him up.

He screamed the entire trip home in the car, all seventy minutes of it, even though I held him on my lap and tried to hush him. At least he wasn’t car sick. The book I’d read warned me that some puppies got car sick.

It’s unfair to say he was a bad dog. We were bad owners – not deliberately. It was more ignorance than anything.

He bit everyone. It didn’t matter so much when he was the size of a cat, the day we brought him home. It was more of a problem six months later, when he stood as tall as I did on when he reared up on his back legs and was strong enough to pull over a grown man if that man did not brace himself properly. We took him to a trainer. And then another one. They recommended neutering. He lost his balls. He was quiet for an afternoon after the surgery, and then he was back to biting and lunging and coming up the leash to maul his handler whenever he was a little bit frustrated.

I loved that dog, and hated him, in equal measure.

Once, when I was at school, someone asked me if things were all right at home. I didn’t understand the question. Why would I be having issues at home? They pointed out the bruises I had from wrist to shoulder on both arms, some fresh and dark and purple, others fading to shades of green and yellow, layered over each other. Awkwardly, I explained that things were fine, I just had a mouthy dog.

I started to think that most people’s dogs didn’t bite them nearly so much as mine bit me.

I doubted.

I knew we weren’t the right home for him. He was a terror, an untrained menace, a danger to family and stranger alike. We’d have to tied him outside just to have some time to ourselves, time when we weren’t having to fend him off, trying to avoid being bitten. When he did come inside, he did it with a muzzle on.

We’d shut him in the garage at night, so he couldn’t injure any of us while we slept.

And I knew if I gave him up, he would be euthanised. He wasn’t the sort of dog you rehome. Foisting him off on someone else would be both irresponsible and cruel.

I came to a decision.

I had a cat named Snowball. She died, she died.

Damn
RIP Kafka
that thread made me feel too much the other night OP God Bless

Anyway, my decision shoulda been to put that asshole the fuck to sleep, but I didn't, and he turns 10 in June.

Oh man I can't believe it that freaking dumbass hamster that we had for like 6 weeks fucking bullshit it was Wilson nothing but some useless freaking for a ball that slowly got more more distrusting of us there's nothing to do in a situation like that you just sit back and you watches as something came and domesticated becomes wild and soon and soon you just have to let it out and he had to Let It Go free even those no better suited for the Wilderness than it was for the cage

I have good pet stories and bad pet stories. I'll tell a good one.

A year ago yesterday actually, I moved to a new city. I was alone and in an unfamiliar environment. I barely got my lease on an apartment, I decided to celebrate. Before even unpacking, I was still sleeping on an air mattress, I went an bought a cheap bottle of Scotch. It was a warm February night so I decided to brown bag it and walk around the new city. I was at the point where I was having real troubles walking around without being noticably intoxicated so I made for home. About a block away from my new place, I can barely remember this part. A stray cat started following me for food. I was playing with it on a sidewalk and felt heart broken. It was deathly skinny, dirty and desperate. So drunkenly, I scooped up the cat in my arms, and to her protest of being held. Ran to my apartment. I tossed her in and stumbled my way to a 24hr drug store for some cat food. I don't even remember talking to the clerk, just remembered tripping in the aisle and having a very hard time finding the cat food.

I don't remember going home but woke up the next day with a cat and a hangover. I've had her ever since, named her Mocha and she's the fattest and happiest cat I know.

Another pic

One more for good measure. Mochie 2 cute.

Unreliable Narrators Can't Keep Getting Away With It! General

Thanks for the support guys. I really enjoyed reading the stories here. I already wrote about kafkas last day, but I figure I should write about his first day as well.

He was the only one awake in the kennel. I knew right away he didn't fit in with his sisters—he had tried to cuddle with them but they kept swatting him away, those half asleep bitches. He and a small black kitten were chasing each other around the kennel. I watched for 10 minutes while sitting on the floor. Sometimes I would stick a finger or toy within the cage and the both of them would bound right towards it. They bit and clawed with their tiny little paws and mouths. I didn't mind. I'd never had a cat before, so this experience was new and enjoyable. I let the handlers know I wanted those two. His kennel name was Mr. Darcy. Maybe if I had left it that way, he wouldn't have gotten the feline equivalent of tuberculosis.

Anyways. I borrowed a crate from the adoption center, loaded them into my car and drove home. They told me not to let them have free roam of my apartment. I didn't have much there, since I'd just moved after a divorce, so I didn't care. They were my new roommates, and since I lived alone, I wanted them to feel comfortable. I let them out in the bathroom. Played a bit with them. Kafka hid behind the dryer while Takkun went flying around like a little black blur, flew right into the food bowl and sent wet food across the bathroom wood linoleum—or whatever the fuck it's called. Anyways, some of it got on Kafka. Had to clean it off. I let them in my bedroom that night. I was so scared of rolling over and crushing one of them, but they just stayed cuddled on the pillow. It made me remember a stray cat I once picked up in Pearl Harbor when I was stationed there, living in Gabrunas hall. Tiny little things, cats are. You almost can't believe that they are capable of moving around like they do. I held Kafkas paw as I went to sleep, and told him that I loved him and he would be my boyfriend, but I'm not gay.

I love it. Perfect story thank you user.

From the first day.

I once had a pet
Now it's dead
I hope it's okay
Rest in peace, Fred

I'm sorry for your loss.

Narrative of his last day. I just want to share his story for anyone who will read it.

alifeinlowercase.wordpress.com/2018/02/03/kafkas-last-day/

my pet died because of birth and im sad as fuck

Meditations on Turning Eight:
I had a Cat named Snowball
She died, she died.
Mom said she was sleeping
She lied, she lied.
Why, oh, why is my cat dead?
Couldn't that Chrysler hit me instead?
I had a Hamster named Snuffy
He died...