Not so much accidental, but anyway...
In my final year at uni, I shared a house with 5 other boozehounds. We were all doing engineering of some sort and as well as having a talent for calculus we could also sink alcohol like the bastard sons of George Best and Oliver Reed at a free bar.

This usually resulted in the house looking like it'd been turned upside down and given a good shake after a night out, but sometimes we were domesticated and did our best to look after place.

For instance, we had a massive slug problem. There'd be little white slug trails EVERYWHERE (I hope they were slug trails, some of the lads were dirtier than a new-born's nappy), they'd be found on the kitchen worktops or round the back of the telly... you name the place, we'd have seen a slug there.

One particularly drunken evening saw our revenge.

We'd all crashed back in from our various libations when Ian, the house beggar, noticed a multitude of the slimy bastards in the kitchen.

So he reached for the salt.

Now, as you can imagine we tried to save money in the house as much as we can - even if it was a few pennies. So the salt we had came from the chinese wholesalers in town. It was a MASSIVE bag.

So, picture the scene: One pissed student + massive bag of salt + numerous slugs = ???

Mayhem. Firstly, Ian didn't have co-ordination to carry the whole thing, and his control of the bag in trying to chemically alter the slug's biological make-up would have been less out had he suffered from Parkinson's.

Eventually though, Ian killed all the slugs in the kitchen. Bravo Ian.

Except, well, the kitchen looked like we'd just had a visit from Pablo Escobar and his Colombian marching powder dealing chums. There was salt in the sink, on the worktops, on the floor, in the microwave (don't know how), everywhere.

Did we clean it up? Did we buggery. It was time for our ceremonial post-piss-up viewing of Taxi and Gone In 60 Seconds, whilst waiting for the kebabs to arrive.

Ian did eventually clear it all up, but instead of using the brush to get rid of the majority before wiping down, he used the mop and bucket.

Which meant everything in the kitchen had a salty tinge for the rest of our stay in the house.

I always preferred my step-dad's solution to slugs, anyway:

1. Make a bat from a piece of two-by-four.
2. Find slug.
3. Lift slug on to bat carefully by wriggling the bat under the doomed little fella.
4. Flick slug into the air.
5. Slam bat into slug at high velocity.

Slug is then either:

a) Atomised on impact or
b) If he's a resilent chap, flung into the far reaches of the local housing estate.

Hurrah.
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 17:21, 5 replies)

Ah, TV Heaven
Picture the scene. Our hero is at the local travel tavern, having a last drink before bed...

Alan: You must have got up to a few pranks in your time.

Michael: Way-aye. Hey, I mind this one time, right. I was stationed out in Belize, right, and I had this little macaque monkey as a pet, right? And one day, I came back to my tent, right, and it'd eaten all my fags.

[Alan laughs.]

Michael: So I picked it up and I hoid it in the watta.

[Alans face falls.]

Alan: You threw a monkey in the sea?

Michael: Well, it had eaten all my fags, man. It was a big packet of two-hundred duty-frees, like.

Alan: You threw a monkey in the sea? That's awful. I mean, I was fishing for some sort of funny story. That's just upsetting.

Michael: Well, you know, I wasn't thinking straight. I just, kind of, got the red mist in front of my eyes and I just grabbed the monkey and hurled it in the sea.

Alan: Will you stop saying you threw your monkey in the sea? All I can see is a monkey spinning towards the water.

Michael: Well, it didn't go straight in the water. It bounced off a rock.

Marvellous.

Edit: for authentic Geordieness.
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 17:04, 2 replies)

Hmm
Anyone else who's never had an animal stuck in the grill of their car starting to feel like they're in a minority?

At least some of these must be bullshit. Either that or becoming stuck in a grill is a little-known major cause of animal deaths. Maybe we should start a campaign.
(clumsyeloquence is a girl, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 16:56, 3 replies)

Yes, of course I'll look after your cats.
My bro and sister in law were going away on holiday, and I was put in charge of feeding their moggies.

Two weeks later they phoned from Gatwick to say they were back, and how were their cats?

Thank fuck I can think quickly.

"They're absolutely fine," I lied reassuringly, finished the pleasantries, and drove like a lunatic round to their house.

Luckily they'd left the cat-flap open, so at least there wasn't shit everywhere. But they had ransacked the bin (which I'd promised to put out on the relevant day) and there was rubbish all over the kitchen floor. But nothing edible.

I spent an hour tidying up, piled several tins of cat food into the boot of the car, filled the cats' bowls generously and was glad to see them both appear, alive!

They hoovered up the grub, and I refilled. Then buggered off.

Imagine my guilt at accepting their present (booze)for looking after the cats the next day. If they could only talk, eh?
( MisterPunch did it that way on, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 16:45, Reply)

Mouse Whore.
A couple o months ao, a very cheeky mouse kept sniffing around my room at my flat. Always waited til I was almost asleep, then would crawl noisily over everything, and ate all my rice. Wee burstard.


Walking back from the pub around this time, i spotted a sweet little black and white moggy. Havin owned cats in the past, and probably not smelling much different that his feline brethren, i got the cat to follow me up to my flat.


I then proceeded to pick it up, and rub it along the skirting boards, and around the flat. The cat was quite amused by this and it may have been more amused than terrified.

After it was getting a bit too freaked out, i took it outside and dumped it on the steps, with a can of sardines as its dirty whorish payment.

At least i didnt make it dress up or spank it.
(stevkay, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 16:33, 1 reply)

At the beach
I was about 8 years old, with my family and another family who happened to be friends with my family. Fun was had, sandcastles were built and after a while there came time for highly sugary treats in the form of ice cream and doughnuts.

However, whilst devouring mine I noticed the family friends' dog pining at my feet, a slow stream of slobber dripping in a puddle on the floor as his eyes kept a firm pained stare with mine.

My childlike nature was no match for these eyes so, when no one was looking I gave him half my doughnut. He pounced immediately, munched happily for a few seconds until it was gone. Approximately 10 minutes later then doughnut re-appeared all over family friends' grandad's feet. As he was sleeping.

Their children got the blame. I went for a paddle.
(BeardyMat, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 16:15, Reply)

Aaargh! My face! My face is on fire!!
My two cats tried to steal my food whenever I was eating. Normal cat behaviour. I'd sometimes let them lick the plate after I'd finished, if I was feeling nice, so I suppose that's where they got the idea from.

I was eating a chilli. Yummy spicy hot food. "Give us the fooooood!" miaow my cats. I told them "You won't like this," but cats aren't famous for their linguistic abilities - while I could understand their plaintive yowling, they didn't get the subtle vocabulary of English at all.
Frantic pestering continued until I was done eating. "Fuck it," thinks I, "you can have the damn plate."

"Nyom nyom nyommers!" both cats descend with glee to gobble up the red chilli juices. "Nyomn nyom ny- ack!"

Have you ever seen a cat trying to get away from its own mouth?
( Invisible Wizard - 10th Level Nerf-herder, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 16:06, Reply)

I accidently....
...shot a sparrow through the wing with an air rifle, it was fucked and screaming on the floor. Then i felt bad at its suffering so covered it in lighter fluid and cremated him while he was still alive.
Illd like to think i helped the little guy out. But then the guilt kicks in followed by the sleepless nights.

And that was how i ruined my life.
(rossydizzle, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 15:35, 3 replies)

Ventilation bad idea!
I was about 12 and we had just moved 100 miles away from all my friends. I was just beginning to feel cool and accepted in the group of (mainly older) friends when Mother and Father thought it best to up sticks and move to the middle of bloody nowhere! Their reason for this was to keep us away from drugs and murder like what you get in the city. They didn't realise though that folk in the middle of nowhere are more stoned than city goers by miles. Not so much a problem when you only have to be alert once in a blue moon for a tractor going passed or something.

Anyway! I thought that rather than make new friends (too much hassle, all teuchters) I'll just get a hamster 'til i'm old enough to move back to Glasgow. I begged Mum and Dad for ages and promised to look after it. Eventually my birthday came and Rodney was a present from my folks in October. How i loved Rodney the hamster, named after Del Boys hapless brother, and how i tended him. I was like Lenny for a while!! He had a nice big red cage with a wheel and a wee hoose and everything. Paradise for a hamster, never short of food but not given too much either. Water bottle re-filled everyday etc etc

So Christmas rolls around and i get the chance to visit my pals back in the land of the living. I was apprehensive about leaving Rodney but made every effort to ensure his well-being until my return. He had lots of extra cotton wool, two big bowls of food and two full water bottles. All set. I was slightly concerned that with all the extra cotton wool, he would get too hot so I opened the window slightly to let some air in for him and set off for civilisation.

Mum and Dad were visiting their friends and i was across the road with my pal. We had a great snowball fight at midnight on Hogmanay and I got drunk for the very first time on my pal's Dad's home brew.

We arrived home late New Years day and i couldn't wait to see Rodney. Happy New Year to him i thought as i ran up the stairs with the enthusiasm of a 5yr old on Christmas morning.

"Happy New Year Rodders, ye wee scamp"
"Rodney? Where are you?, wake up man i've missed you"

I closed the window over and began to prod around his cage. The cotton wool was not soft and fluffy as i remembered but hard and brittle. I had found Rodney, curled up in a wee hamster ball, frozen stiff! The concern i'd had regarding temperature had not extended to the fact that it might get too cold for him with the window open. Poor wee thing. He must've shivered away to a miserable death while i was falling off my pal's couch and staggering aboot.
I put him on the radiotor for a couple of hours in the vain hope that he would leap to life victoriously and scurry to my side. Not to be. He was deid! I was gutted! It was a freezing cold night and a pish start to the new year.

So, accidental cruelty or just dumb as fuck? You decide but kids take heed of this advice: Don't leave your bedroom window ajar in sub-zero temperatures when you are trying to conserve the life of an innocent wee hamster.

I would like to take this opportunity to say "I miss you Rodders you plonka. I hope you have a Merry Christmas and a happy(er) New Year in hamster heaven."

I don't have length.
(Scoopfoot loves lamp, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 15:28, Reply)

Jess
Jess, our beautiful border collie, sleeps under the stairs.

This usually isn't a problem as long as you are up before nine and let her out for wee-wees.

However, after once going out and getting completely wankered, my missus left for work at 6am, and I slept in until two, blissfully unaware poor old Jess was awake and starting to wonder where daddy was, and probably was busting for a piss.

I've never seen her move faster than when I opened that door!
(Fatty Thornton, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 15:13, Reply)

i really didnt mean to but the drugs slowed my reaction time
i was driving on a city highway by a big pond. there was a line of ducks crossing the road and i hit the first one in line. the effect was like that of running over a stout pillow. : (
(paloozagirl, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 14:54, 1 reply)

Brandy Bird.
Not me, but my grandmother.

She was just taking a walk outside when she found a sparrow laying on the floor. It was covered in blood and had obviously been attacked by a cat. My grandmother's a bit of an animal lover, so she picked it up carefully in her hands and carried inside, laying it down as softly as she could with the intention of caring for it until it was better.

At this point she thought to herself "Hmm, what would make me feel better if I'd just been attacked by a cat? I know! Brandy!". So she proceeded to pour out a tiny amount of brandy, she put it to the poor bird's beak and slowly tipped it back. The bird managed to swallow all of it and almost instantly perked up.

After a few seconds it was back to its lively self, quite amazing really. It got up and started flying manically around the room, tweeting like a squeaky toy owned by a hyper-active dog. It flew around the house for a coupld of minutes with my grandma chasing it frantically, when all of a sudden it dropped down to the floor. Dead.

At least it died happy.
( Incredibly Ordinary Dave needs your clothes, your boots and your motorcycle, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 14:50, Reply)

Bad idea
I think this is a poor topic idea. Because while you'll get some genuine stories (like the bat one, which was funny in a sad way) you'll also get cruel fucks.

What's next week, "accidental rape" stories?
(LokiMD, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 14:50, 4 replies)

I once set up a cunning trap to catch our cat.
Box. Held up by stick. String tied to stick. Plate of food under box. Me holding other end of string, hiding behind sofa.

Magic.
(Seance Trumpet has got no beef with a man enjoying a croissant, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 13:42, Reply)

My sister went on holiday to Rhodes
and left me with the responsibility of looking after her gerbil. One night me and my mate were smoking spliffs and enjoying ourselves immensely. Why shouldn't the gerbil have fun too? So we blew dope-smoke into its cage. After about ten minutes of this it dropped down dead.

When my sister got back I told her the gerbil must have missed her and died of a broken heart.
( Slippery Jim Seeking a psychotic lady for fun & sex & crime., Sat 8 Dec 2007, 12:45, 1 reply)

Not Me
But my bro....

Sat outside a pub one summer night about 5 years ago. The pub had a few benches outside and an empty car park. Some folk were playing carpark football, some were smoking(ahem) others were simply sat talking and drinking.

Out of nowhere comes the shout of, "HEADS". The ball bounces on the table and breaks a pint glass.

At the other end of the car park is a little brook surrounded by trees,nettles,crisp packets etc. This is the best place for the broken glass.

Once the table was swept all that remained was the base of the pint glass with a few jagged edges on it. My bro picks it up and chucks the glass over his shoulder.

He hit a Bat!!!!

Mid air. Poor thing took the full force of it. It hit the deck and we all gathered round the poor thing.

It was as dead, as dead is dead.

My bro was gutted.

Million to one shot.

Can't get more accidental than that...
(never-right -getting it wrong since '78, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 12:32, 3 replies)

A Dog's Life
Kids love Chewits. They have absolutely no nutritional value of any kind, are clearly made in a chemist's laboratory and should be banned for the amount of sugar-intoxicated rage they imbibe in their young fans, but they're still wolfed down like they're going out of fashion.

ANYWAY... I was one of those Chewit addicts, back in the early 90s. Ate tons of them.

One day during the summer holidays, I was entranced watching the cruddy daytime tv what plagues kids whilst it pissed it down outside, chomping on Fruit Salad Chewits like there was no tomorrow.

Anyway, without thinking, I fed Ben, my pet dog, one of my Chewits.

Oh. My. God. Have you ever seen a dog try to chew a toffee or other such jaw-tiring confectionary? It is hilarious.

Ben, who was the most loyal and friendly dog in the world, spent a good half hour trying to digest the sweet, teeth chattering to the nines and tongue trying to reach around his gums to get a good hold of it. It was becoming a real effort for the mutt.

After a while though, it appeared that Ben was becoming quite distressed about the whole matter, having a sorrowful look in his eyes, a furrowed brow and making occasional whelps to indicate his plight.

It wasn't funny anymore, and I was starting to feel a bit guilty. I grabbed hold of Ben, fished around in the poor dog's gob and removed the offending item. I'd have felt less awful if I'd told him (in dog speak) that I'd run his mum over in my car.

As soon as I got the Chewit out, Ben legged it out of the living room, up the stairs, and to the end of my parent's bed. He didn't come out for a few hours, and when he did he avoided me for a good couple of days.

There's a postscript to this story too.

A few weeks later, I was back at school. I'd walked Ben with me during my paper round in the morning - much to his apparent chagrin seeing as he appeared not to have forgiven me for the aforementioned incident and made a big fuss of dragging me round my route rather than trotting along.

Anyway, I was walking back from school in the evening when I saw Ben a few streets away from my house. I called him over, and noticed that he wasn't quite right. He struggled to run, was panting all the time and his ribs seemed bloated. I stopped after a bit, let him have a rest, and looked at his face and I could swear he was crying. He gave me a lick on the face as if to say he was OK, and we plodded on home.

By the time we got home he was yelping quite horrible sounds and clearly in distress. I'd had to carry him the last few yards to the house. My stepdad said something wasn't right, and called the vet. By now the whole family was in tears. Ben was a great dog, a true part of the family, he'd been loyal to me and my brother and now here he was, not in good health at all and there was nothing we could do.

Ben was taken to the vets by my stepdad, a couple of hours passed, and then my stepdad return. Alone.

Ben had a twisted stomach, the cause of which unknown, but he'd been under severe stress because of it and the pain must have been awful. Hearing this, I broke down. I didn't say why I was so upset, but I was ridden with guilt because I thought of what I'd done those weeks back.

I doubt now that the whole Chewit thing had caused Ben's twisted stomach, but if I ever found out it had, I'd be the PDSA's largest financial donator ever to make up for my ill treatment of a dog who was a brilliant pet.

I'm sorry Ben.

P.S. Apologies for the grim tale, but I felt I had to get it off my chest.
P.P.S. I haven't touched a Chewit in years.
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 11:16, 6 replies)

Office Cat.
Hmmm, where to begin?
Chairspins across the office?
Putting him in a mailsack and swinging him?
Playing pencil case Buckaroo?
Taping a veiwfoil to the front of his kittiekennel while he's asleep and then taping some cat biscuits to the viewfoil then waiting for him to wake up and see food that he can't get at seemingly floating in mid air in front of him?
Making him moonwalk by putting a piece of sellotape on each of his front paws and another on his forehead?
Hogtying him with elastic bands?
Timing how long it takes him to get out of a mailsack with an elastic band around it's neck, that's been placed inside a box that's been sellotaped shut that's then been put upright in a swingbin?
Oh, accidental? Sorry, nothing to tell.
( stuj (^(^;;^)^) GO TEAM SPIDERS!(^(^;;^)^), Sat 8 Dec 2007, 7:29, 4 replies)

Accidental? Judge for yourself…

I did nothing as Daisy the cow was taken from her field where she was happily grazing.

She hadn’t done anything wrong…wouldn’t hurt a fly.

I did nothing as she was dragged into a dank, dark, corrugated iron shack and wedged into a small cage where she couldn’t move. Despite her state of perfect health, I did nothing as she was painfully electrocuted until unconscious. Less than one minute later, she was mercilessly shot through the head with an iron bolt and her throat was cut.

Call me a monster if you will, but as her skin was flailed from her now lifeless body, I did nothing.

Her once beautiful eyes now ripped out, her head sliced off, her tongue removed, her guts eviscerated and her feet cleaved from her legs with huge blades…as she was hoisted up and the final precious lifeblood dripped from her corpse…I didn’t intervene.

As her remaining limbs were hacked off and cast into vicious grinding machines…grinding…grinding…ever grinding her once happy, harmless shape, stripping her bones until all that was left was a pinkish, soulless mass of unrecognisable pulp.

I.Did.Nothing.

I nonchalantly carried on with my daily selfish business, pretending to be blissfully unaware of the fact that the tiny remains of sweet Daisy were being pounded, manhandled and subjected to extreme temperatures.

Even after all this…I did nothing.

…

Still, it was quite a nice Big Mac ™

Da-da da-da-daaa…I’m lovin’ it
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Sat 8 Dec 2007, 6:27, 4 replies)

I drowned my hamster.
That's right. I drowned it.

Basically, when I was seven I had a small russian hamster called Chocky.
It was a tiny bastard that loved trying to escape- we also had a cat, so to prevent
the cat from eating the hamster when it'd escape, we kept it's cage in the
[empty] bath, with the plug in.

One very cold night, the pipes had frozen. Before putting the heating on
I went upstairs to check the bath taps- turned them on, no water. Alright, it's
not a problem so I put the heating on. A few hours later, I went back upstairs to.. pee,
or do whatever seven year olds do, and saw the bath overflowing,
sawdust and hamster food everywhere.

Lucky for Chocky, as the water pipes unfroze, the bath taps had been left on
and the bath slowly filled with water. Little Chocky, in his small, barred cage,
was floating- trapped between the bars. His teeth, embedded in the metal.

He had died a very luke-warm death and it was my fault.

I still scream his name at night.


 
( TonyUNDERSCORE from the Internet, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 4:29, 1 reply)

poor puppy
This house was being built next to ours, and one of the builders had this cattle dog with him - mans best friend and blah blah blah. Well, this dog was a friendly dog, and since we'd never had a dog before, it was good to have one to play with.

I had a tennis ball and i was throwing it for the dog. Then i had a brilliant idea of kicking it for the dog. So i kicked it for the dog, dog jumps up as i'm kicking it and tries to catch it. Ended up me actually kicking the dog in the mouth, making the dog bleed.

The dog yelped, the owner came over and yelled at me for kicking his dog, and told us not to play with her anymore. I said it was an accident but that didn't really matter.

I felt terrible and never got a chance to say sorry to the poor little thing.

Click this if you want me to kick you in the mouth. :D
(brotagaia, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 4:09, Reply)

Not accidental
When my brother and I were young, him 7, me 9, we discovered a kitten in the back garden. Aw, lovely, we thought. What's the best thing to do with this?

Volley-ball, obviously.

We threw the poor thing back and forth, over the clothes-line, in the dark for a good half hour before my parents came out and asked what was causing such hilarity.

We got a bit of a telling off for our cruelty, they took the cat into the house, and then put an advert out asking if anyone had lost a small furry item. We were gutted, cos we wanted to keep our newfound friend. The next night, said cat had disappeared.

Turned out it had hidden behind the cooker and kept quiet. For three days. A clever little kitten, with such monsters on the prowl. It only got discovered when it mewled from hunger.

Someone eventually came to pick it up. I don't remember the details, but I assume my parents didn't tell the owners about the poor creatures treatment at our childish, but savage, hands.

I suggest a new joiner to the "I Like this" links... "I don't like this at all!! call the police!!"

Neither big nor clever.

But, by god, it was funny at the time.
(weedom, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 3:30, 1 reply)

as everyone here
seems to want to play games with cats, here is my submission.

Take one cat
one piece of tape
one big piece of newspaper or tissuepaper

Hold cat down, wrap paper around cats tummy, tape in place.

They go spakkers trying to get it off, but really do look like they're having fun. (At least, my little one likes it)

but it doesn't hurt them and it's not accidental, so I guess I'm badly off topic..
(loki lie smith kiss me til I'm in a coma, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 2:53, Reply)

The duck$ aksed 4 it
I thought I was a good guy. We threw stones at birds, sheep, cars and horses - basically everything that moved in my hometown - there were training sessions fueled by our pre-teen hormones and we knew we were tough because we listened to rap music. I spotted a motherduck with 12 duck-babies or so circling around - miles away from our "throwing rocks" distance. I was never a contender but I figured I could score some points, so I threw a rock hoping to strike and struck mother goose right in the head. It was a one in a million shot - Mrs Goose turned upside down and died. It's baby ducks circled the corpse for hours while I wept like a baby. I went from juvenile to a hard core killer and I've never been the same.
(ggpurk, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 2:12, 5 replies)

spatial awareness of cats: confusion thereof
moving furniture is always a confuser.

I rearranged my room once, and put a desk where the bed once was. My cat came in and had a right old time trying to decide where the bed was, sniffing around the desk for it and not finding it. I picked him up and put him on the bed; he looked at it in a "no, that's not right, the bed's over there" sort of way, jumped off and tried burrowing behind the desk to get to the bed. It took a couple of days to get him used to the new layout. Silly old cat, bless him.

Cats, of course, like their routines. they like knowing what goes where and what doesn't. what they don't like is when the glass panel door with one missing panel at the bottom suddenly has its glass replaced one day ... *bonk*.

And... i was about five, remember... please don't feel too badly about this... i decided my cat's whiskers were too long and trimmed them short on one side. The poor little bugger went round in circles bumping into things for weeks. I didn't intend to be cruel, it just sort of happened.

Apologies for length, or lack of on one side anyway...
(Jack Rarebit ...We like chillies, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 2:08, 1 reply)

Robot cat
when we were young uns, my sister and i put smarties tubes on the cats legs, this resulted in said cat taking on the gait of a robot, my sister laughed so hard she pissed her pants...
(Ickypimp, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 1:46, 3 replies)

puppy vs. huge cat
I suppose i should have planned things a bit better and acquired a puppy and a kitten at the same time. That's said to work. What works rather less well is when one already has two abnormally large, muscular, sleek, self-important cats and then introduces a small puppy who just wants to love everybody he meets. Nearly two years later the situation is still the same, the puppy (dog by now) is far bigger than the cats but has them imprinted as his betters, and is always trying to creep up to them to make friends. The cats are having none of that shit. Last week he came running to me in a terrible state with a cat's claw-casing still embedded in his nose. I do have some guilt-feelings for making my dog a cat's bitch, but it probably would have happened anyway. we got another (even bigger) dog recently and he got exactly the same contemptuous, slash-and hiss treatment. Should I feel bad? answers on a postcard, please.
No apologies for length, I am what I am, and what I am, needs no excuses.
(Jack Rarebit ...We like chillies, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 1:42, Reply)

Its here that I finally admit to
putting tuppaware beakers on my cats heads and placing them under the kitchen table. Then roaring with laughter as they wiggled backwards smacking their head off every table and chair leg until the beaker came away. I was 9 at the time. I still can't get done for this can I? At least I haven't said anything about spinning round and round with them in my arms and then letting them wander off like drunkards......
( Smithlick is often seen at the bottom of threads, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 0:52, Reply)

As someone who's had pets all my life
I've got tons of relevant stories.

Unfortunately, I'm having to post them all at once from my mates laptop, as I've recently lost my internet connection. A long story, which involves my landlord being an arse, and contacting Virgin about the free internet I was recieving. If you want to know the story, see this : www.b3ta.com/questions/conned/post94422 Virgin turned the line off, and are refusing to set it up again, and I can't get any other provider to use the line. And, seeing as I don't have any internet access at work (unlike most of you jammy bastards), I'm gonna have to post as and when.

Anyway, rant over - on with the post.

As I've mentioned before, I was a bit of a hellraiser when I was a teenager. Or, to put it another way, a cocky twat (not much has changed).

My Dad, who I've never got on with, used to have a Mercedes S-class that was his pride and joy. He loved that car - he'd wash it every weekend, polishing and buffing every surface, probably whispering sweet nothings as he did so. Woe betide me and my sister if we so much as touched it - he would check for fingerprints on the windshield and bonnet. He was a prize cock, and the car grew to symbolise everything I hated about him.

One fateful weekend, when I was 17, he had been called away to some business meeting overseas. He didn't like leaving 'his baby' in the airport car park in case something happened to it (I kid you not), so it was left in the garage. As luck would have it, my Mum and sister were staying at my Gran's, so I had the house to myself.

"Hmmm, let's see - place to myself, no adults around, car sitting in the garage. What to do, what to do..." I pondered, for about 5 or 6 seconds. Then I did what any sensible, responsible teenager would do - lifted the car keys from the hook, and sprinted to the garage.

I've mentioned my cat Aladdin in the previous post - we also had another cat, called Jasmine (my sister's talent with naming pets strikes again). She was brilliant - loving, playful, and full of mischief. She used to follow me around the house, almost like a puppy. Anyway, as I opened the garage and climbed into the car, Jas had followed me inside and jumped in with me. I decided to take her with me on my illicit joyride - I have no idea why. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I backed the car carefully out the drive, and took it up the country roads behind our village. I was having a great time racing around, taking corners with wild abandon - I fancied myself as a young Michael Schumacher. After a while, Jas became restless, and began jumping around the car. She tried climbing onto my lap, and when I gently pushed her away she moved under my feet, and tried to squeeze under the pedals. I realised at this point that having a cat in the car was a bad idea, as I was becoming dangerously distracted, and she could end up getting hurt.

So I stopped the car, and put her out. We were about half a mile away from the house, and I reasoned that she probably knew her way around the back roads - she'd probably came up here hunting at night. I was confident she could find her way back okay, so I drove off, conscience clear.

After another half an hour of amateur rallying I decided I'd had enough fun for one night, and drove carefully back to the house, making sure to park the car exactly where I'd left it, and lock the doors. I hang the keys back on the hook, and call my mates to regale them with tales of my joyriding exploits.

My mother returned the next day. All was fine, until she went to call the cats in for dinner. Aladdin came racing in as normal, but there was no sign of Jasmine. This wasn't too unusual - sometimes she'd spend days out hunting, and then return as if nothing was wrong.

A few more days passed. Still no sign of Jasmine. My Mum began to get worried. "What if something's happened to her?" she asked. I kept quiet - I couldn't exactly admit to joyriding my Dad's car. But I was beginning to feel slightly guilty.

Another week passed. My Mum is getting more and more worried. She is convinced someone has stolen the cat, or worse. I'm still keeping quiet, but the guilt is gnawing away at me like a cancer.

After another week passes, the guilt has became unbearable. I lie awake at night, thinking of all the awful things that could have happened to Jasmine. Maybe she's lost. Maybe a fox got her. How could I have been so cruel? I feel like a complete bastard.

Just as I'm getting ready to confess everything, we hear a 'miaow' at the door. It's Jasmine - covered in mud and 2 pounds lighter. Three weeks after I'd turfed her out the car, she had managed to find her way back home. I can't imagine what she went through. I'm not religious at all, but I thanked God she was okay.

After that, I had learned my lesson. No more joyriding. Well, no more joyriding with pets in tow. As it happens I took the car out another three times before eventually being caught. But that's a story for another QOTW...
(Pavlov's Frog figures no-one really reads sigs anyway, Sat 8 Dec 2007, 0:22, 1 reply)