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This is a question Accidental animal cruelty

I once invented a brilliant game - I'd sit at the top of the stairs and throw cat biscuits to the bottom. My cat would eat them, then I'd shake the box, and he would run up the stairs for more biscuits. Then - of course - I'd throw a biscuit back down to the bottom. I kept this going for about half an hour, amused at my little game, and all was fine until the cat vomited. I felt absolutely dreadful.

Have you accidentally been cruel to an animal?
This question has been revived from way, way, way back on the b3ta messageboard when it was all fields round here.

(, Thu 6 Dec 2007, 11:13)
Pages: Latest, 22, 21, 20, 19, 18, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Bimbo and the bowl.
This story concerns two friends of my parents; Nick and Jill.

Nick is a good humoured guy of great patience. Jill is extremely houseproud and tends to get uptight about things like interior decoration. They live in a large Victorian sandstone house that they have renovated over the last two decades.

They had a cat called Bimbo. Bimbo was a lovely cat; a ginger female that had been brought up with their two children, and had never posed any problems.

Then they redid their kitchen. Black tiles; granite surfaces; anything that could be lifted had to be chrome. To accommodate Bimbo, they installed a catflap that was activated by a magnet on her collar. The whole thing looked fantastic- like something out of a catalogue. They were understandably chuffed with their efforts.

The cat, on the other hand, seemed less than pleased. They would put food in her bowl and come back to find it spread across the tiles. It happened every time they fed her- she would seemingly shun her food and throw it across the kitchen, covering the cupboards and floors.

Jill was not pleased. Her new kitchen was being violated several times a week. She became convinced that Bimbo was succumbing to old age- she was around 16 at this point- and started to talk about having her put down. Nick convinced her not to act so rashly; they could train the cat out of her behaviour.

Around a week later (with no change in moggy behaviour) they were sitting in their living room. The door was open.

Nick spotted a ginger blur.

"Jesus, I've just seen the cat run by with its bowl under its chin!"

Jill was understandably skeptical, but followed him out to the hall. There they found Bimbo and her beautiful chrome bowl surrounded by cat food.

Nick picked her up with one hand, and picked up her bowl in the other. He spoke to her in the exasperated tone familiar to anyone who has ever tried to train a cat.

"Why do you keep doing this?" he said, waving the bowl close to the cat's face. "You're making such a mes..."

At that point the chrome bowl pulled itself to the catflap magnet on Bimbo's collar. The cat let out a helpless 'miaow'.

The poor thing had been starving over the previous fortnight- every time she'd tried to eat, her bowl had stuck to her collar and she'd panicked.

Bimbo lived to around 19 and died of natural causes. She ate the rest of her meals from a ceramic bowl.
(, Sun 9 Dec 2007, 22:21, 11 replies)
When Ants Attacks
My little sister bought herself an ant farm - one of those gel ones, where you can see through the glass frame all the tiny tunnels that the little blighters make, and watch them waving their little anty antenna around, and doing whatever it is ants decide to do in edible blue gel.

She loved this ant farm. She populated it with a few black ants, and true to form they dug mini catacombs, and ran around, content in their own little ant eutopia. It was the ant equivilent of surburban bliss, with blue gel instead of picket fences. After a while, a few of these ants died fat, content deaths of old age. So, my little sister, concerned that her sociable little ant friends might get lonely now there were so few of them left, trotted off to find some new ants to add to the colony.

She was very careful to chose black ants, as everyone knows black ants and red ants hate each other.

Well, it turns out that there is some civil war going on in black ant land.

It was a massacre. Through the clear glass frame, we could do nothing but stand helplessly by as a vicious and bloody genocide swept through the blue gel tunnels. Limbs were removed, and left to clutter up the floor. Feuding ants formed katamari like balls of rage, that rolled down the gentle inclines of their mini citadel. Corpses were piled in corners. One savage ant trooped onwards, the severed head of a foe still clamped in death onto his hind leg. It made the 300 look like a carebear movie.

In true Highlander form, in the end, there was only one. One battle weary ant, with a dead head still attached to his back leg. He lived out the rest of his days in catacombs full of ant corpses, and my sister didn't dare give him any more friends for fear of the terrible rage he might unleash on them.

When he finally died, she tried washing out all the dead ants from the tunnels with water, but they simply swirled around like a really horrific version of an ant massacre snow globe. She tried to introduce new ants, but as if sensing the death and destruction that had occured in the tunnels below, they huddled on the surface and refused to go inside.

In the end she gave up, and started raising sea monkeys instead.
(, Fri 7 Dec 2007, 15:06, 8 replies)
Younger brother, previous cat
It's perhaps a good thing that my brother abandoned his plan to become a vet fairly early on. Although his intentions were often good, the execution thereof wasn't necessarily so.

My family has had a number of cats over the years. On one occasion, when we were both much younger, said brother discovered a zit on the cat's chest, which he attempted to pop.

Except it wasn't a zit. It was a nipple. The cat was less than happy.
(, Thu 6 Dec 2007, 11:34, 7 replies)
I used to have a very stupid dog.
To see if he was completely dense, we tried training him to do a few tricks (sit, roll-over, beg, give a paw etc.) with limited success.

One morning, he was dozing in his favourite spot on the landing at the top of the stairs.
As I passed him, I said "Hello boy! Roll over!" - expecting him to look blankly at me as normal, but on this occasion he performed with instant obedience and rolled-over.
All the way off the edge of the stairs.
And kept on (involuntarily) rolling-over down every stair until he landed at the bottom and learnt a new trick - play dead.

Fortunately, he was ok but I felt really guilty.

He wouldn't do tricks after that. (and I don't blame him).
(, Thu 6 Dec 2007, 11:50, 3 replies)
Wasp warning
Sh*t i just remembered this one man!

When I was about 16 i was hanging out round my house with a mate and there was a wasp faffing around in the curtains , bouncing off the window etc.

Anyway, my mate starts telling me about this trick where you put a fly or wasp in the freezer and it passes out, you can then tie a bit of thread around it and then you have your own pet fly on a lead.

So we catch this wasp in a glass, put it in the freezer and leave the door open and watch. It slowly starts getting tired then after about 2 minutes its out cold. We then got the unconcious wasp and carefully tied some cotton thread around its body (about where the sting attaches to the torso)

After it warmed up it woke up and tried to fly away - but it couldnt get far because it was now on a lead. After a few minutes of running round the house with our pet wasp we cut the thread down to about 6 inches long then stuck a little note to the other end saying "WARNING - WASP" It was then set free outside.

Not really accidental.. but then again not really crual coz wasps are c*nts.
(, Fri 7 Dec 2007, 11:43, 6 replies)
This one was accidental, honest
Back in my teens we were the proud(ish) owners of an abso-frigging-lutely huge BFO tomcat - he had had his spuds lopped but quite late, so he was built like a bulldog but was reasonably chilled out.

Bear in mind this cat had taken been hit by cars twice (we lived on a main road and he used to go and sit on the white line to watch the pretty traffic as a hobby), had acid gunk dropped on him when he broke into a building site, fought, killed and eaten almost every species of mammal resident in the UK and even fought a deathmatch with me over custody of the pet rabbit.... this was a take-no-prisoners blokey cat. With absolutely no sense of humour whatsoever. The vet wouldn't examine his teeth without a general anaesthetic, this was how hard this cat was in his prime. Think Greebo but in black.

Did I mention the lack of sense of humour? Good.

Now at the time we also had a tank of goldfish of various wierd shapes and colours. All the bits, nice rocks, plants etc to keep their tiny fishy brains amused. Said tank being placed on a deep windowsill - looked luvverly. Now you would think that this is going to lead to a tale of fish slaughter, but no.

Monster mog had discovered that the strip light in the lid of the tank made a pleasant warm spot where he could lurk at his ease, looking out of the window in case a deer wandered past that he could savage (about the only one he never got). The lid did buckle a bit under his impressive musclely bulk, but hey ho. Truce between cat/fishies.

Now the only way for him to get to his perch was to jump onto the seat, then the back of a big armchair just below, and then launch himself with the grace and charm of a gutshot warthog onto the tank. Once the fish had stopped vibrating, all would be calm except for occasional burping and/or purring.

So, if for example you are cleaning said tank and have wandered off to have a fag break or summat, leaving the lid off and the chair pushed back a couple of feet for access and wander back to find said puddy spread-eagled across the tank (fair play to him, he had managed to get 3 paws and one chin onto the edges) like a hairy starfish... do you (a) rescue your beloved obese pal with no delay or (b) laugh hysterically for some time and allegedly prod him up the bum to see if he'll fall in properly.

Don't think he ever forgave me. Sorry Tinker.
(, Thu 6 Dec 2007, 13:05, 2 replies)
Oxford's Cock
This time last year, I was living with the Librarian Girlfriend in a flat in Pittsburgh, with a roommate who shall remain nameless (for politeness' sake). Said roommate had a cat named Oxford, who was a funny little beast, as cats tend to be.

Oxford wasn't allowed outside, because we lived on quite a busy road. I've never lived with an indoors-cat before. It was strange, and a little sad to see him perched on the radiator against the window, gazing out at the birds and wondering where they go when he can't see them.

I have a theory about indoors-only cats. They're all nuts.

Oxford, in particular, was a fat, filthy little fucking pervert who had the horn for my girlfriend and was not in the slightest bit shy about it. He'd scrabble against the door trying to gain entry when we were having (or trying to have) some "alone" time; he had a perverse fascination with the bathroom and would try his best to follow if he heard you open the door to pee; he adored waking you up by waving his fuzzy little balls in your face (and, sometimes, farting at you too); he enjoyed the occasional shoe humping, and, perhaps most disturbingly, the LGF's underwear would occasionally go missing and turn up in his litterbox, liberally smeared with every conceivable form of feline bodily emission.

Anyway. On to the partially-accidental cruelty. Partially because I did actually mean to do this and freak him out just a little bit, but I didn't expect it to have such a dramatic effect.

LGF was at work. I'm at home, in the bedroom, on the bed, laptop out and trying to get some work done while the first load of laundry goes through. Stay-at-home husband, and all that. Oxford is lying next to me - not so he can be cuddly and close like a nice cat, you understand, but because I have a Dell laptop and it gets so hot it'll warm the room up in winter. I feel movement, and Oxford's sitting up, yawning, stretching and leaving the bed.

A few minutes go past. I hear the occasional rustle of fabric and fur. Eventually, I begin to wonder what's going on, and I look towards the source of the noise. Oxford has left the bed, and climbed into the pile of worn female underwear awaiting the next wash. He's rolling from side to side, entangled in a pair of pink panties, grinning a little kitty grin.

He also has a tiny, glistening pink erection.

He stops rolling momentarily as our eyes meet. I can tell he's pondering whether to carry on shamelessly, or whether to slink off and keep a low profile. He takes a pair of faded pink panties into his mouth, and chews thoughtfully, his swollen kittycock twinkling in the morning sun.

Now, I've never seen a cat with an erection before. I didn't know that they were all... well, lubed-up like that. To this day, I don't know whether they just come like that, or if he was licking it before I looked down. Anyway, "That glisteny wetness," thinks I, "will make for good thermal transfer. I wonder what would happen if..."

I lean over towards him, slowly so as not to frighten him and spoil the fun. He stops chewing and watches me. When I'm about a foot away from him, I purse my lips, and blow directly at his cock.

It's a cold room, and the skin is wet. Think about rubbing an ice cube on your genitals.

There's an immediate result. Oxford jerks and rolls over to escape his own freezing willy, but it doesn't seem to work, so he rolls the other way - still not working! He kicks off from the floor with both feet, propelling himself like a furry, horny rocket as fast and as far away from me as he can - but his back legs don't quite catch up exactly right. They're entangled in pants! He's falling! He's sliding across the shiny wooden floors - all the way out of the bedroom, across the hall and into the kitchen! What's more, he's been struggling and rolling all the way, fat bastard that he is - and he's managed to get himself even more tangled in the pants!

I step over to what is now a hissing, spitting ball of hatred with a pre-worn pair of knickers somehow simultaneously trapping three feet and covering one eye, and gently remove the panties. Oxford slinks off to sulk in the corner, but not before giving me a look that seems to scream "You disgust me."

Length: about an inch and a half, with a furry base.
(, Wed 12 Dec 2007, 11:46, 7 replies)
Have a pearoast
Not me but some Japanese tourists...

It was a beautiful summer’s day amongst the dreaming spires of Oxford, no-one could have predicted the abject horror that would come crashing down from the sky.

A good mate of mine was whoring himself out as a labourer on a buiding site for the summer holidays. After a hard mornings work he stopped to eat a light lunch of fois gras and tongue sandwiches. Chatting idly with a co-worker on the third floor scaffolding he dislodged a brick which, as would be expected, plummeted towards the hungry earth.

Unfortunately directly below him was a fat, one footed sky rat, A pigeon, going about it’s business pecking at mouldy food and trying to rape other pigeons. The brick struck with exocet accuracy, crippling, but not killing the pigeon.

Racked with guilt my friend scuttled down and retrieved the mortally injured bird. Once back on the third floor he asked his colleagues opinion as what to do with it, “it’s fucked mate” came the eloquent response, “break it’s neck!”

This seemed like a relatively sensible idea; break neck, put suffering animal out of pain and dispose of the resulting corpse, job done. My friend takes the pigeon in his hands grips tightly on it’s body and it’s head. Twist and pull. As it turns out a pigeons neck is’nt especially strong and with a gentle pop it’s head was separated from it’s body.

Shocked at this gruesome turn of events my friend did what any self respecting bloke would do, squealed and threw the offending carcass off the scaffolding. The body flapped and twitched in a graceful arc before landing in the middle of a crowd of Japanese tourists who screamed and ran. That is apart from the ones who gathered around the still flapping bird took photos of Oxford’s famous headless pigeon to show the folks back home.

Length…head and shoulders below the rest.
(, Mon 10 Dec 2007, 11:34, 4 replies)
All Cocks are Rapists!
Some of you may be aware that one of the reasons I’m called Chickenlady is because I used to live on a farm and have pet chickens. My chickens were a great source of amusement and also education….

I have twin boys who are now 9, but when they were a few years younger I got hold of some fertile eggs because one of my hens (Ethel) was broody. She duly sat on them and produced four cockerels and only two hens. The chicks were lovely but within a few weeks the young cocks had become just that and were harassing all of the hens…several times a day to the point that the favoured hens had no feathers on the tops of their heads and many of them had now got bloody scabs from the over enthusiastic males holding them with their beaks.

When your young children have seen hens being given a good seeing to on a regular basis sex education is pretty easy, or so I’d thought. The following conversation is etched on my memory…

Son #1 “Mummy, what is Hector [Hector was the biggest cockerel and therefore it was his house...] doing to all the hens?”

Me “He wants to give them chicks”

The kids were already well aware that hens lay eggs regardless of whether there’s a cockerel about or not (some adults are unaware of this, and more than once I’ve heard an egg referred to as a ‘Chicken abortion’ erm….no it’s unfertilised…and will never ever become a chick, you idiot).

Son #1“But how?”

Me“Ah…well….you know how you have a winkle?”

He nods, interested now (typical male…any mention of genitalia and they’re all ears…as it were…)

Me“Well…Hector has one too”

Son #1“Where?”

Me“Under his feathers. Anyway, he jumps on the hen’s back and he puts his winkle into the hen”

Son #1“Where?”

Me“Erm…where the eggs come out”

Son #1“UP HER BUM!!??”

Me“Yes…but it’s called a Vent in chickens”
(Can you tell I used to be a primary school teacher?)

*Boy thinks*

Son #1“Mummy….”

Me“Yes darling?”

Son #1 “Is that how people get babies?”

Me“Pretty much, yes, but they always ask first and they always should like each other a lot”

Son #1“So…Daddy…and you…..”

Me“Yes”

Boy looks slightly shocked…

Me“It’s alright you know, when you get older you’ll understand that it’s okay and nice too.”

Boy begins to cry…

Son #1“But Mummy….I’ll never be able to do that!”

At that point I’m afraid I had to stifle my giggles, gave him a hug, told him it would be okay, he *would* be able to do it and would want to do it, then I sent him outside to play.

Ten minutes later I went out to see what the kids were up to….and I see my son chasing the cockerel around the garden shouting at him, “You git! You didn’t ask her if she wanted chicks! Leave her alone!”
(, Fri 7 Dec 2007, 17:56, 8 replies)
Suzie the Sausage Dog
When I was a kid my cousin had a dachshund named Suzie. She was getting pretty old, was almost blind, had no teeth, and no fur to speak of; just leathery black skin.

Unbeknownst to us kids, my uncle decided to put her down. This being rural Australia, that basically meant that he and a couple of his mates took the dog out into the bush and shot her. Later on the news was broken to us that Suzie had been very sick and so they'd put her out of her misery and now she was in doggy heaven.

Fast forward to about a year later... out of the bush wanders a strange yet familiar leathery-skinned creature. It's Suzie, still alive but missing part of her lower lip and jaw (blown away by the shot gun!). My uncle's attempts at putting her "out of her misery" had been so ineffectual that she'd not only survived the shooting, but had been living in the bush for over a year.

It was pretty freaky for us kids having this pet come back from the dead; (a kind of Stephen King "Pet Sematary" moment). My cousin was so happy and Suzie was so excited to see him again. My aunty then loaded Suzie into the car and took her to the vet to be put down.
(, Mon 10 Dec 2007, 0:22, 5 replies)
About 17 years ago...
I awoke one morning and got myself dressed and ready for school. After the obligatory ablutions of the 12 year old male (i.e. a quick sniff of the armpits and a tentative scratch of the plums) I sallied forth and ventured downstairs to fetch myself some cooked bread comestibles.
Having made myself a cup of coffee, and placed the bread in toaster I then discovered a terrible and distressing lack of marmite. 'Oh well' thought I, "buttered toast to break my fast will have to suffice and I shall instruct Mother to purchase more yeasty victuals ASAP."

The toaster did 'spoing!' I buttered my toast.

It tasted....funny. Somewhat scorched and musty. A burnt hair kind of smell. After gagging upon the third slice (it was a four slice toaster, and I was a fat bastard even then) I cautiously peered down into the grinning, gaping mouth of the toaster.

Something looked back at me. With sad eyes. Eyes that had known pain and suffering.

There, its claws melted to the side of the toaster, entombed in a small mountain of crumbs and smouldering fur was... a mouse.

The expression on its face could only be described as "oooooof".

Poor fucker. One minute gorging itself on crumbs, the next watching as its feet congeal to a glowing orange element.

I ate the last slice of toast though.
(, Tue 11 Dec 2007, 0:42, 5 replies)
Frog Wars
When I was a young-un, there was this large-ish pond in the woods near our house. Each year, for some un-known reason, the pond used get full with hundreds of frogs. You could just plunge you hand in an almost always come out with a frog.

Being gentle, kind-hearted kids we came up with a great game "Frog Wars". Frog wars basically involved throwing frogs at each other whist running around the pond. There weren't really any rules, you just had to throw frogs at someone.

During one particular game, I hurled a frog right across thge pond at another kid. It was one of those perfect throws that you just knew was going to hit its mark. The world almost stood still as the frog-weapon arced above the water towards my target. Unfortunately for him, he happened to be shouting just at the point of impact and my aim was true. It wasn't just a head shot but a mouth shout. The frog landed right in his mouth. It was probably one of the funniest / most disgusting things I have ever seen. The poor kid screamed and vomited on the spot.

This was to be the end of Frog wars. I think that he went home and told his mum and we all got a bollocking.
(, Thu 6 Dec 2007, 14:24, 4 replies)
My family are mostly dog lovers
only initial surprise then that my mum ended up leaving a pretty high paid job in which she was regularly head-hunted to run all the big projects, to become a dog groomer- for whom people travel from miles around. But those are stories for another day.

They have had dogs since I was about 8 and have had many an adventure, but a few instances of accidental cruelty stick in my mind.

* The time that their dopey doberman became interested in stones thrown into the sea. This was a fine game indeed, find a pebble, call her name, chuck it into the sea and watch her furiously try and sniff it out (spluttering if she timed dunking her snout underwater wrong) before spotting that you have another and instantly losing interest and running back to try and catch that one...only the game evolved, to ever bigger stones, and on this fateful day a large rock about the size of a hand was being thrown, and unfortunately the poor girl spotted it before she was supposed to, resulting in a doberman intercepting a large and heavy rock straight in the smacker.

She knocked out all of her front teeth, but that was only discovered when getting back to the car as she hadn't even flinched, just proudly jumped around her catch, seemingly oblivious to the fresh gap in her gums.
She was (of course) taken to the vets, but the teeth had been knocked pretty cleanly out so not much could be done really and she was absolutely fine, never seemed to bother the eejit :)

* My dog, not the smartest in the world, not the stupidest...but also has his Dope Award moments. We used to play the classic game of 'catch your tail', which he'd humour us with briefly then move on. Until the fateful day my mum decided to hold his tail for him, trying to eek a few more minutes of tail chasing out of him. He happily chased it around a bit, my mum moving with him, but then all of a sudden he had a burst of enthusiasm and leaping forward he grabbed for his tail.

That yelp made me feel like the shittest owner ever, and the hurt expression he gave us was heart breaking. He'd managed to dislocate his own damn tail and it was crooked for weeks :/

* My dog again. He's a very well behaved dog, though not rigidly trained, there's some debate about the level of training dogs need but I must admit that I'm quite happy with his, he knows his place and when you call him on something he knows when to stop fucking about and take you seriously, but he has a real mischievous streak and a whole lot of personality for a dog. One thing he learned pretty early on is that food isn't his until it's given to him, you can drop the tastiest thing ever in front of him and he'll just stare rigidly at it, occasionally glancing at you to find out its fate and only going for it if you tell him 'ok'. Though it was never tested too thoroughly with us out the room the boy knew not to steal food either so we were pretty much covered on all bases.
The accidental cruelty came one night when we were having a bit of a late snack, none of us being hungry enough for a full meal. we went through to the utility where the big fridge is and loaded our arms up with a few choice bits, cheese, tasty condiments/pickles, left over meats (you get the picture) and retired to the living room to consume them. The dog followed us in to check it out but soon left again, knowing that he wouldn't get ANYthing if he sat and watched, we all assumed he had retired to his basket to wait for any left overs we might be inclined to share...only he hadn't, not quite. Periodically he kept wandering in to the room and staring at us, kind of hopefully, noticing the looks of 'out!' and wandering out again, but he kept coming back! ever more desperate look in his eyes each time. The last few times I could hear quiet whimpers as he approached and left.
There was nothing noticably wrong with him, and eventually he retired to his basket and stayed there, not quite settled but at least not upset, and we locked him in the utility where he sleeps and all went to bed ourselves.

When I came down the next morning I was met at the door by a large, frantic and ecstatic canine! as I turned the corner with him bounding around me I finally found out why...there on the floor, underneath the fridge and not two feet from his basket, was a large chunk of ham. Untouched.

Remembering his doggy lessons he had resisted snatching that succulent treat, right from when it had been dropped unseen from our late feast, through the hours of us sat downstairs ignoring his pleas, right through the night as he tried to ignore its tempting aroma right by his nose.

Needless to say, serious praise was inflicted on him and the tortorous ham became his own private feast, fusses were aplenty that day :)
Since then we have become aware of his 'Lassie' actions and come to understand what it means when he comes to find us out with that hopeful look in his eyes and meaningful whimper, if you follow him he will show you exactly what he's asking for, and though he doesn't always get it it's certainly a useful communication for us.

/about 6 by 4" and honey-mustard glazed
(, Thu 6 Dec 2007, 13:37, 1 reply)
Despite the name
I have yet to do that degree of harm to a cat (or my cat), and it instead refers to what happens every time my curiosity gets the best of me. It's to the same affect of Christmas bells and angels' wings. Or wanking and kittens.

My bit of accidental cruelty was deciding to take my boy home from the shelter. He's a tuxedo, very dignified, and very sweet. Except I am more than happy to exploit him for my own amusement. Time spent studying for finals was instead used chasing him around the apartment when his midnight crazies were especially bad. I laughed my arse off as he howled for help when he got his first bath. I frequently grab him under the front legs to make him stand up like Sylvester the Cat. I grab his back legs to play wheelbarrow with him and try to break my long distance records. If he has an embarrassing moment, I am there with the camera. I play with his ears, his tail, pedal his legs, play "stop hitting yourself", and behave like a six year old. He has not properly been referred to by his real name for months and is more often referred to as Kitty, The Cat, Mr. Chubbs, Fat Ass, Fatsy Patsy, HEFTY HEFTY HEFTY wimpy wimpy wimpy, and the now infamous FAN-W (Fat Ass the Nutless Wonder).

Intentional cruelty aside, my one moment of accidental cruelty was letting my fat bitch of a classmate drop him as he was struggling to get out of her grasp after much prodding and pulling at him, and she unceremoniously dumped him to the floor. Kitty landed loudly on his side and I near took her throat out. She doesn't understand what the big deal is and still insists her cat is an asshole. If that's how she handles animals, no wonder her mog hates her. (The one time I accidentally kicked my boy was when I couldn't find him, nudged a blanket on the floor and heard a startled meow.)

Despite the abuse I heap on my pet, he is the best decision I have ever made about anything and I love him like I'd love my child. (Except I probably wouldn't play wheelbarrow with my sprog. We shall see.) Everytime I come home, he is porked out on the bed in a hilarious pose and a chorus of "MIAOW!" and headbutts. He'll run pell-mell after his toy balls and makes out with his catnip pillow with glee. As much fun as it is to grab his love handles and make Three Stooges noises, I love it when it's 2 AM, I need to brush my teeth and go to bed, but he's tucked into the crook of my arm and fast asleep. If he wants attention, he'll flip over to show his belly and curls into a cinammon bun. He chirps and grunts and answers to my noises. He's only yarked when he ran around too much, shit on the rug when he was sick (and once when I wouldn't wake up to pay attention to him), he doesn't claw up the furniture, he'd rather run than bite or claw someone, and he is the biggest ball of sweetness I could ever be blessed with.

Gawbless the pets who will take our abuse, intentional or accidental, and love us anyway. I'm sure a number of posts have been made on this subject, but another one to sing their poor praises is always nice. :) He is currently tucked up at the end of the bed and grunting whenever I poke him.

Here is the delightful lil dumptruck. This is the first of many hilarious moments, especially since I walked in on him like this and stayed like that so I could get my camera.



Click 'I like this' if you want to see when he got into the bras.
(, Thu 13 Dec 2007, 8:30, 8 replies)
Aunt's dog
When I was 19 I was backpacking around the world with 3 of my mates. One of the stops on our trip was New Zealand where my aunt lives. Now, she lives on a farm that has a river that meanders through it, something I remembered from visiting her in my childhood.

We had only just arrived and put our backpacks down when I suggested a stroll down to the river, to a little shaded spot that was very picturesqe. In reality I was keen to smoke a spliff and wanted to get away from the prying eyes of my aunt.

So off we toddled down to the waters edge with her big fat labrador waddling along behind us.
When we got to the river you could see that it was still very swollen from the recent inclement weather they'd had over the proceeding weeks. The water was much higher, dirtier and faster flowing than I remembered it. It was such a raging torrent that it looked a little scary. I joked about throwing a stick into the middle of it to see if the dog would fetch it. We laughed about how fucked the dog would be if it did jump in the river - and how much trouble I'd be in if I lost my aunts dog within 30 minutes of arriving at the farm.

Anyways, we smoked a couple of spliffs and decided to make our way back to the house for a spot of lunch. Just before I left to go I absentmindedly picked up a stone to see if I could skim it across the water. No sooner had it left my hand than this stupid fat dog leapt off the bank into the river.

Oh, fuck!

We all stood in silence and watched helplessly as this dog was hurtled down stream at a rate of knots, head bobbing below the waters surface as it slowly became smaller and smaller before disappearing out of view as the river rounded a bend.

OH, FUCK!

We all stared at each other in shock - having only moments earlier been joking about this situation and all the various scenarios that may play out, we were now faced with the very real problem of having to explain to my aunt that I had, in fact, just lost her pride and joy, a 12 year old dog that I remembered from my childhood.

I really didn't know what to do - and being stoned wasn't helping the situation. We threw a couple of ideas out there.
"What dog?"
"It jumped in the river before we could get there to stop it."
"It was looking a bit depressed when we arrived."
"I guess it must have been it's time."

None of these looked like they would carry any weight so I decided honesty was the best policy and we'd better just go back and face the music.

Walking back I was so nervous. My aunt is a nice woman but she could be a real bitch as well and would think nothing of tearing a few strips off me. I also knew how much she loved the dog and how upset she was going to be. I was dreading this.

As we approached the house my aunt came out to meet us at the front door, all smiles and welcoming. My mates began to lag back, not wanting to be involved in what was about to go down.

With tears starting to well up in my eyes, I started to explain that I didn't mean to and it was the last thing I wanted to happen but I had managed to send her dog to it's watery grave. Just as I started to profusely apologise, the fat little shit came sauntering out of the house and stood beside it's master.

Turns out the dog goes swimming in the river every day and follows the river around the corner where it gets ouut and runs home.
(, Fri 7 Dec 2007, 1:07, 2 replies)
When I were a nipper
we had a mongrel dog, which was fat, stupid and smelled like last week's fish and chips. But he was ours and we loved tolerated him. When I was about 13 and he was about 10 (so getting on in dog years) my older sister came over and she brought her new dog. It was a glorious Collie/Alsation cross that was tall, beautiful, striking, and the doggie equivalent of that 18 year old that suddenly blossoms and all the guys would cut off their left testicle to get with her.

Now, my fat, stupid, smelly dog had never been within groping range of a female dog before, let alone without being on a leash. This was doggy heaven. It was like having your own dream girl come to your door and strip off. Except she wasn't quite so willing.

Cue about an hour of my dog trying to hump the new dog (which was about a foot taller than him). She would constantly bite him to tell him no, but five minutes later he would have weighed up the risk of losing a limb with the chance of getting his leg over and he'd be back at it.

And the cruelty? There was two parts.

Firstly, the poor bitch had been trapped in the same room as the canine sewage farm for several hours, having to constantly fend off his advances. I guess it's the equivalent of a young woman being constantly hit on at the pub by the dirty old letch (every pub has one) except this time the doors are locked.

Secondly, my poor hellspawn had the biggest erection you've ever seen, and it wasn't going to go away while she was around. He literally could not sit down for two hours because it was dragging along the floor. I'll never forget the image of looking over at my dog, who was standing there, exhausted, panting, sore, whopping great stiffy resting gently on the carpet, and looking like he was thinking "just give me five minutes, I'll get her this time..... Maybe 10 minutes"
(, Thu 6 Dec 2007, 12:12, 5 replies)
Don't fuck with fish!
A scuba diving tale of caution...

Before I start, I will just say that the cruelty was totally deliberate. However, the end result is quite amusing.

On a club diving trip, a couple of lads have just reached the bottom, where they are kneeling on a sandy seabed, getting their bearings.

One diver, Steve, spies something from the corner of his eye. Something half buried in the sand, and a fair size. "Fuck me," he thinks, "it's a monkfish", and swims over to have a look.

Now, instead of admiring this wonder of the North Sea, he does what any self respecting hunter-gatherer would do, and whips his knife from its sheath, and stabs it in the back before it can swim off. He then grabs the knife handle, and with a flourish produces his 'goodie bag' and jams the monkfish in, head first.

His original intention to carry it with him on the dive soon wears a bit thin (what with it being a big bloody fish, quite heavy, and still thrashing around in the bag). So he thinks to himself, "I'll just go up the shotline, chuck the bag in the boat, and pop back down again". Which he does.

Surfacing by the boat, he shouts, "How man, Vince, look after this for me", chucks the bag into the boat, and descends once more.

Vince being a bit of a nosy bastard wonders what's in the bag (thinking it might be a lobster) and goes to have a look. Now at this point it's worth pointing out that the combination of divers jumping in and out the boat, plus a bit of a swell, has caused water to gather on the deck. Not much, but a good 2 - 3 inches. It's also worth pointing out that monkfish are fucking ugly bastards, with a mouth the size of the Tyne Tunnel and a head to match.

So Vince picks up the bag, has a look in, promptly shits himself, and drops the bag. Whereupon the monkfish, by now a tad pissed off, escapes from its canvassy prison, and proceeds to chase Vince around the deck of the boat, still with knife stuck in its back, opening and shutting its gaping maw in a desperate attempt to get its revenge on, well, any poor fucker in the way. Which happened to be Vince.

Apparently it took about 30 blows to club it to death with a large diving torch...
(, Thu 6 Dec 2007, 20:36, 3 replies)
Neurotic budgie
After my grandfather died, we got my grandmother a budgie as low-maintenance company. The bird's time on Earth was not good.

For one thing, my grandmother reasoned that birds fly, therefore the budgie ought to fly, too. Thus, if she ever caught it not flying, she would wave her stick at it until it took off. And when I say "ever", I mean EVER. It was never allowed not to be flying when she was in the room. It must have been exhausted. It certainly developed a fear of people.

Anyway, eventually my grandmother announded that she could no longer cope with the house, and that it was time for her to go into kennels. The bird couldn't go with her, and so it fell to me to become its surrogate parent.

I did my best to nurture the budgie back to some semblance of mental health. I was doing quite well, too. Noticing that the budgie would sing when he could hear other birds outside, I decided that it would be nice of me to go to the library and take out one of those sound-effects albums featuring birdsong.

I found what I thought would be perfect. Ninety-odd samples of all kinds of avian call. I put on the CD and felt a warm glow...




The budgie panicked. I don't know exactly how I could tell this - but he did. I'd pressed play without noticing that the first 15 minutes of the disc was comprised of recordings of birds of prey.

Length? Three weeks of wasted bird therapy. He escaped soon after.
(, Thu 6 Dec 2007, 15:19, 2 replies)
Happy Landings
In the bar of a gliding club which had better remain nameless, the talk turned, as it does, to parachuting cats. Being practical people, there was only one way to settle the matter. A small parachute and harness were made and the clubhouse cat lured out with a sardine.

Strapped in. Taken to the balcony of the WWII airfield control tower which served as clubhouse. Thrown off.

Wheeeee. The parachute worked perfectly and the cat didn't seem to mind the experience too much. In fact, he liked it so much that he came trotting back up the stairs, trailing the parachute and asked, as cats can, to be thrown off again.

This got to be quite a regular event, and the cat would eventually thrown itself off the balcony for the fun of floating to the ground.

Until the sad day when someone left the window open and the cat, siezing the chance, sneaked out and jumped. The parachute, alas, was still in the cupboard ...
(, Thu 6 Dec 2007, 15:02, 3 replies)
Taking a pig upstairs
A mate of mine lived with a woman for a while, who was nuts about pigs. Had a pig flap put in the back door, used to take it for walks, that kind of thing. More of a family pet than a culinary investment, the pig started off small, and, in the way of things, got bigger.
And bigger. And friendlier.
This pig used to follow my mate around, and being curious, often followed him upstairs.
This wasn't a problem when it was younger ( reason in a min) but became an issue when the fucker grew to 14 stone, and lead to her untimely dismissal.

The problem is, that pigs' legs fold the other way from ours. This makes stairs effectively a 'pig valve', piggy can go up stairs with a moderate amount of piggy decorum, however, only way the pig can get down stairs is to hurl itself from the top step, and hope for the best!
This was just about acceptable when the pig was a piglet, rather a different matter when a large sow hurtles past, picking itself up off the bottom step.....
(, Fri 7 Dec 2007, 11:47, 4 replies)
Everyone else is submitting phesant stories, so here's mine
My parents own a farm. One field we leave to grow grass which, when long enough, is turned into hay and sold to horsey-people.
To cut this grass, you need a big mower.

My dad uses a 6-metre wide mower that attaches to the back of a tractor, has 4 metre-wide cutting discs and howls like banshee.

Any right-minded creature, when confronted with this whirling death machine, legs it.
Not a dotty lady-phesant who'd made her nest in the field. She decided to sit there (she was sat on her nest, I'll let her off).
TWACK
One headless phesant.

Dad felt really guilty, and brought all her eggs home, which we then hatched in our incubator.
Only one of the 8or so eggs actually hatched, and I ended up with my very own pet lady-phesant.

She was ace, she sat on my shoulder like a parot, ate out of my hand and had the brainpower of a stunned amoeba.

She couldn't get her head around the concept of windows, and spent hours leaping from my shoulder, swooping across the lounge and slamming into the patio door at high-speeds, only to shake her head, fly back to my shoulder and repeat the move a few minutes later.

She used to fight the cat, but neither of them put any real menace into it.

Eventually I released her back into the wild.
I was worried she'd die after being raised in captivity, but the next year she turned up in our garden, along with a chuffed-looking cock phesant and loads lil baby phesants.
She's came back every spring since then, until she stopped coming one year.
But we still have a clan of phesants who frequent our garden, all decended from my nameless pet.

Length, etc.
(, Fri 7 Dec 2007, 11:35, 6 replies)
Watersports
This one is really more a case of cruelty to the owner and not the animal....

And my apologies in advance for the general nature of my posts this week which all seem to concern farms...Yes, it was just like the Archers.

Sometime ago when I was still with the farmer I kept a few goats - all females. Goats only need to produce kids every other year in order for them to keep milking (unlike cows who need to go in calf annually or else their milk dries up).
Anyway, three of my goats needed to be put to a buck so we could have some kids and keep up milking them too. So I began a search for some likely looking boyfriends for my girls - they were stunning girls and I knew I'd have no problem finding a fit buck or two for them. The evidence of their beauty is here.

So, after looking online for caprine gigolos I eventually discovered a rather handsome looking chap living not far from the farm.

Off I went to view the goods...and yes, I did feel rather like a pimp.

In the depths of the Kentish countryside I found this rather ramshackle and run down smallholding. The owner was a rather quiet and reserved widow who didn't look at all like the usual livestock farmer or part of the horsey/dog set. It transpired that her late husband had been the farmer and she had simply made jam and fed the chickens sometimes.

She took me out into the field where half a dozen goats were grazing - all female except for this huge white beast who resembled a small buffalo and stunk like month old goat's cheese.

The does all seemed entirely oblivious to his rather overpowering presence and continued to chomp away at the grass, the hedge and the trees while he sniffed around them.

All in all a lovely bucolic scene.

Until one of the does decided to answer the call of nature.

She shifted her weight a little so as not to splash her legs and began to pee.....The huge white buck lifted his nose in the air and began to gallop across the field at full pelt. I felt more than a little nervous - male goats may not be as big as a bull, but they are just as mean and dangerous potentially.
He thunders across to the pretty petite doe and then skids to a halt at her rear end...She's still peeing...

He drops his head right into the sparkling flow, rolls his top lip back into an Elvis-esque sneer and then bellows like only a buck in rutting season can.

The widow looks at me, back at the goats and then, red-faced exclaims, "My word! Well, thank goodness people don't behave like that!"

And before I could stop myself....*hangs head in shame*...I opened my mouth and blurted out,
"Clearly you don't know the type of people I do"

I'm not sure who was more embarrassed.
(, Wed 12 Dec 2007, 11:45, 6 replies)
Lazarus the hamster
Many years ago, when few people had access to the Premiership football on Sky TV, my friend Woody was very generous by allowing his mates to arrive at his house on a Sunday afternoon and watch the footie, as he was the only one of our Mancunian circle rich enough to be able to afford the satellite fees (this was about 1993).

So, one Sunday afternoon a group of us appeared at his house to watch Manchester United take on Manchester City. As the only United fan in a group of twelve, I was a bit apprehensive, but smiled grimly and decided to put up with the abuse that was sure to follow from Woody, a huge City fan and as people from the area will know, somewhat bitter about United's success.

Woody had two hamsters, which he hilariously named 'Laurel' and 'Hardy', but when we arrived for the football he announced that there had been a double tragedy. Hardy had died the weekend before, and had been buried with some ceremony in the back garden in a cigar box with much weeping.

As we stood on the step on a freezing November day, Woody was close to tears as he related that he had woken up that morning to find Laurel dead in his tank, seemingly through heartbreak. We all shook our heads sympathetically and then asked to come in and watch the fucking football as we had only come round for a few drinks and the match, rather than a requiem to mourn the death of a tiny rodent.

The match began and the mood was solemn, until City took the lead, at which point Woody leapt to his feet in joy, despite the fact that the large tank (still containing the very visible body of a slumped hamster named Laurel) was right beside him. The thought of beating the old enemy clearly made Woody forget the death of a second hamster in a week.

Anyway, come the second half I was feling more uneasy as United had equalised and I wasn't the most popular person in the pub in that room as a result. Then the unthinkable happened...

Paul Ince (United midfielder who remains one of the most unpopular men in football) strode forward and hammered a shot right into the corner. 2-1 to United (which is how the match ended).

Three things happened at once. The rest of the room (City fans all) became quire irate). I jumped up with my arms in the air squealing like a mad thing. Then Laurel the hamster leapt into the air with his hamster arms raised squealing like a mad thing, for he was alive! And obviously a big fan of Paul Ince or Manchester United.

There was much talk of 'The Lazarus Hamster' after the end of the match. Then somebody sugested that hamsters might hibernate, or maybe just be generally sluggish in cold temperatures (and Woody had decided to invest in Sky Sports over a central heating system).

Anyway, some beer later a small but solemn exhumation took place. Woody simply had to know whether he had buried his beloved Hardy alive. As three of us went at the icy ground with spades, the cigar box was soon revealed, and gently removed fro the cruel earth, and in the living room, Woody carefully opened the box, like a contestant on a macabre 'Deal Or No Deal.'

It was no deal. The box was empty, with a small hamster-shaped hole chewed into one side, where Hardy had woken up and decided to make his 'Kill Bill 2' escape with his tiny claws.

Who knows if Hardy made it to the surface and a better life? What matters is that Laurel escaped the same fate of being buried alive and that United went on to win the Premiership as usual.

Oh, and Woody the massive Manchester City fan had to live for another couple of years with a hamster who was so obviouy a United/Paul Ince fan.

I simply cannot help the length.
(, Tue 11 Dec 2007, 3:16, 2 replies)
He was minding his own business having a kip in a hollow log
And I was merrily chopping wood with my BRAND NEW chainsaw

I'm a massive animal lover so I was gutted.
But I guess not as much as mr possum :-(
(, Sun 9 Dec 2007, 12:10, 9 replies)
Jaffa arsed dog
Once I was throwing jaffas to my mates dog to eat. He wasn't a good catch, and they were going everywhere. Anyway, we told him to sit, which he did, and then received the next jaffa. Then when he stood back up, we realised he'd sat on a jaffa, which was stuck to his arsehole. We started laughing, even more so when he realised he could smell a jaffa, but couldn't find it, and started running in circles. He proceeded to chase his own arse for the next 30 seconds, with us laughing harder and harder at the stupid creature. Then he became so dizzy, he stopped running in circles and toppled down the flight of stairs. We thought he'd broken his neck, but he stood up, shook himself, and then happily ate the jaffa which had become dislodged from his date during his tumble.
(, Fri 7 Dec 2007, 23:58, 3 replies)
Dogs
They're a yappy, friendly bunch of mans-best-friend type of thing. They trust humans lots and have been so out-bred of real natural instinct that they are the epitome of man's domestic pets. They fetch slippers, the newspaper and if properly trained the odd curry.

Anyway, back to realism.

Myself and Greg knew his dog was blind (you can see where this is going) and we were pretty cool with that. We were pretty considerate and clapped whenever we called him to encourage him to move with the sound. He was good and learned where holes and flower beds in the garden were - pretty cool. He was a damn fine dog and wouldn't hurt anything, even when my kid sister poked him in the eye, he just sat there and wondered what had happened/why something had done that to him.

He was a chocolate labrador and would potter around *HIS* garden all day and recognised when his food was being ready by hearing the sound of the tin opener being removed from the drawer at about 5pm. Even then, he wouldn't run; just pad his way to the back door and stand there until he was invited in to have his dinner.

He loved children because they would makes lots of laughing noises whenever he moved and that's what he loved - pleasing people for no other reason that they just petted him on his head and stroked his ears. Like I say he was a wonderful pet and in his own right, one of my family when I was very young.

His demise was particularly distressing but not caused by myself. Greg and I were chucking a tennis ball around in the garden where 'said chocolate lab' lived and Greg got a bit too enthusiastic. Off the ball went, over the fence, into the road. Realising that the dog would try and follow the ball we shouted, "No!" and he stopped. He followed Greg's command like a statue and waited patiently for the next step. What a good dog :=)

Greg went out of the gate and retrieved the ball from the gutter at the other side of the road and threw it back to me in the garden. Bad move! He was a crap throw and couldn't see where the dog was. The ball hit the front of a moving car on my side of the road and bounced off. Hearing this the dog set off to get the ball. He knew where the fence was and clumsily jumped over; sprinting for where he thought the noise came from he ran into the middle of the road and just smelled around 'looking' for the tennis ball. I remember so clearly the feeling as I saw him there with the innocent face and lolling tongue waiting to be told what to do.

And then the car came.

Some fucking stupid Talbot Horizon was driving towards him and (it seems) was only yards away from the trusting labrador!
Screeching of brakes and a horrible yelping sound emitted.

I opened my eyes to see Greg holding 'Choco Lab' in his arms. My stomach was like a black hole and I thought the kind old mutt was dead. But the noise had come from Greg! What he'd actually done was jump in front of the car to save his dog: "Lab" was fine but Greg has forever suffer from a rather creaky back where the car had hit him.

Lab died of a heart attack when he was about eight - I was at uni by then so couldn't see *his* family at the time.

I'm still friends with Greg and every time we meet we talk about "Lab" (much to the annoyance of everyone else) until they tell us to shut up.

I don't care. That Chocolate Labrador was the best dog I've ever known. and I don't care if this doesn't quite fit with this QOTW topic but there you go.

Length....about 25 years ago now and I still see it as if it was yesterday.
(, Fri 7 Dec 2007, 3:26, 3 replies)
sootica scrubs up
my wee brother had a black kitten, sootica, that had the unfortunate habit of sleeping in the laundry basket. it eventually got round to doing it when my mother had seperated the colours leaving the blacks in there.

she subsquently loaded the basket and drowned sootica. when i got home from school my mother was in hysterics after finding the lifeless soggy feline in amongst my dads work socks. she made me promise to never tell my bro and we would all stick to the line that 'it must have ran away'.

that was 17 years ago.

i told him at a party last summer when i'd had a few too many. he took it well. by phoning my mum out her bed at 4 in the morning while off his chops and calling her 'a fucking lying murderer.'
(, Thu 6 Dec 2007, 16:25, 3 replies)
My other doggie..
Actually, my wifes doggie is a very boisterous scottish terrier who love nothing more than grabbing the end of your jeans and attempting to throw you across the room in them.

He recently got over his fear of climbing and descending the stairs (he only has tiny legs, so the logistics for him were quite a challenge), and now has no fear of heights whatsoever.

For example; we took him to a local farm where she who must be obeyed was working. He was in the back of the car (landrover discovery) and appeared rather eager to get out and start chasing squirrels.

Now.. the back end of a discovery is about 2 1/2 feet from the ground, so we always reach in to pick him up and lower him to the floor.

On this occasion, for reasons known only to him, he decided that as soon as the door opened, he was getting out as quickly as possible.

It looked like a very graceful and well timed jump, however the wee man had not considered the drop that awaited him.

The poor little bugger did a face plant into the gravel, got up, shook himself off, and then attempted to run down to the stables. Now if anyone has seen a rabbit in the last stages of myxomatosis, they stumble and run wildly in random directions, and generally end up impacting something at high speed.

Well, he did. He ran "straight" into the nearby gate post. At this point, while obviously concussed, he decided to sit down and stare at us, as if to say "why did you let me do that?"
(, Thu 6 Dec 2007, 11:46, Reply)
My Cat...
...first off, I love my cat. Although what I did to him was kind of harsh, and to this day, he has trust issues where i am concerned, the fat ginger bundle of matted fur has being a loyal companion for about 10 years now.

...anyway. My cat has always been the "eyes bigger than his belly" type, sniffing at or helping himself to anything that is on offer or just left un-attended for too long.

One day I had purchased some of those breath strips that looks like small sheets of plastic and dissolved on your tounge... his crying at me and sniffing of the box made me decide to call his bluff (all his fault y'see).

I broke a small peice of a strip of and placed it on his tounge..... for about 15 minutes he jumped around our back garden foaming at the mouth and sneezing....

His breath smelt lovely though
(, Wed 12 Dec 2007, 13:15, 3 replies)
glue ear
I don't know why my Mike always brings marijuhana to our parties. None of us smoke it and he hardly ever gets to smoke it either. He usually ends up taking it home with him. Except last new year - returning home hammered from the pub he decided that he was taking our puppy to bed with him because it would get cold downstairs, the big soppy git. Anyway, he nods off into a drunken stupor, and wakes to find that the dog has slept well in his company. not only that but he has breakfasted on the contents of his stash tin. Mike awoke to find our puppy with an enormous wood on, latched onto his head and fucking his ear just as hard as he can.

Puppy calmed down a bit when he'd finished and was very mongy for a day or so. Cruelty? ask Mike's ear.
(, Tue 11 Dec 2007, 23:58, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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