All my pets are dead

Occasionally, when I want to take a break from my luxurious lifestyle of jetsetting to Tokyo and dating loads of beautiful women, I’ll visit the home of a friend’s dog.

I love visiting dog people, for nothing reminds me of just how clean my home is when I’m invited to sit on a couch covered in dog fur while inhaling a scent reminiscent of Chewbacca suffering from gangrene. And after a round of drinks, attempts to converse over the incessant barking and several dirty paw prints on my denim, I return to my quiet, orderly, spotless house to realize one thing only: I wish I had a dog.

A single problem exists in this wish: Every pet I’ve ever owned has been killed. Not simply “Mittens was an old cat and was bound to pass soon,” but “Good God in Heaven, that can happen to a living creature?”

Let me start at the beginning. When I was very young, I had a lovely cat named Turkey, whose name has origins as epic as Homer’s Odyssey. Unfortunately, it’s equally droll, so I’ll skip over that. Turkey was a fantastic pet until one day I started sneezing. Turns out I was allergic to cats, and the only solution was to put Turkey to sleep so I could go on living. Just kidding; we actually just gave him over to a friend, but I never saw him again. Turkey was dead to me, and his name lives on at the top of the list of Personalities That Are Dead To Me (also featured: Katie Couric at No. 37 and That Guy Who Cut Me Off On The Freeway The Other Day at No. 583).

I know that first tale doesn’t support the My Pets Get Killed argument, but let me continue. I had a pair of zebra finches for a few months. They were a lovely couple, the wedding was held at a lovely Catholic church, and the honeymoon at Cape Cod was surprisingly dull. Nevertheless, the wife laid some eggs shortly afterward, and this led to some tension in the relationship:

WIFE: Honey, I had to lay the eggs somewhere, so I laid them in the seed basket.

HUSBAND: Brandy, how the hell am I supposed to eat my seed? I come home from a long day of chirping, and all I want to do is relax and eat some husks!

WIFE: Well, you can’t, Gary. I don’t have hands; I can’t move my eggs into the nest!

HUSBAND: Why didn’t you lay them in the nest to begin with?

WIFE: These eggs are the size of my head! I’m expected to think while I pass these things?

HUSBAND: Woman, please, I’m starving! If you don’t move, I’ll make you move!

We woke up to find the wife dead on the base of the cage, lying in a bed of her own feathers. She had been pecked to death. The husband drank himself to death shortly after the incident, perhaps crushed by the impending responsibility of raising a flock on his own.

I also had a tarantula, which I earned at the age of five for not biting my nails. It was a cool pet for two years, until it decided to live for 10 more. I then realized that spiders make poor pets on account of them being spiders. Thankfully, it killed itself one afternoon while trying to shed its skin, wedging itself between two rocks and mangling itself to death. All eight legs were broken. It will be remembered only for not dying sooner.

My tropical fish were killed by flesh-eating parasites. I must credit evolution in enabling fish to continue swimming even when they’re missing both of their eyes. Nature is full of miracles.

Lastly, my favorite pet, a chameleon, was a fantastic, exciting, colorful part of my life. She was “loyal as a lizard,” as the old saying apparently goes. And like many pets have a mysterious way of doing, she died while I was conveniently at camp. She died of heat stroke. We buried her in the planter in the backyard of our old house. Not very deep under the soil. Hmm … probably should have warned the new owners about that. Oh well.

I know and understand that eventually my dog will die. It’s just the fear of him dying in similarly radical ways as my other pets did that worries me. I’d like the tombstone in the pet cemetery to read “Here Lies Ambassador Woofs, Dead of Natural Causes” rather than “Here Lies A Few Pieces of Ambassador Woofs, Killed by the Dog Serial Killer of 2009.” Wherever you are, my future dog, I’ll give you the gift of a wonderful life by never owning you. Also, I’ll give you a better name than Ambassador Woofs.

James Koman is a biology junior and a Mustang Daily humor columnist.