Accidental animal crueltyI 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.
(
rob, Thu 6 Dec 2007, 11:13)
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The saga of Fidgety.(This may turn into a bit of an epic - be warned.)
When I turned 9, I was given a pet of my choice as a present.
We (mother & I) went down to the pet shop and browsed the rabbits.
"What about one of these?" asked my mum, pointing at some small, adorable ball of fluff.
"Mmmm, maybe..."
But I had already decided on something ultimately more... colossal.
At the back, in a single cage on the floor, were two of the biggest rabbits I had ever seen.
Both were albino, mini-lop eared dwarve something-or-others.
I had found - in the back of a small, family owned pet store - irony, sarcam and laziness personified in animal form. Perfik.
"Arrrrr" said the owner (for clarification, he was from the country and not a pirate.) "Those thar might be a bet too big fer you lad."
"NO!" Spake I, "Irony bunny or nothing!"
"They don't do maach, honestly, Oi av to check on em ev'ry half our or so ter see if they're still breathan"
Unbelievable! This country bastard was ruining my birthday! Eyes going misty, bottom lip trembling I turned to this Wiltshire hick and looked in square in his good eye...
5 minutes later I was walking quite happily back to the car with one half of the brothers Sloth.
Now came the tricky part - naming.
'Whitey' seemed unoriginal and racist.
'Snowy' was unimaginative and boring.
'Thumper' was just...ew.
This was turning out to be tougher than I'd originally assumed until...
FIDGETY!
I hearby pronounce you in the name of Christ, FIDGETY!
Or 'Fidge' for short.
The irony seemed to be lost on most people, but it didn't matter because he had an original name and he was mine!YAYS!
Within a week Fidge had lodgings in the store room next to the PS1.
We had a strange relationship, Fidge and I.
I fed him, gave him water, got my mum to clean him.
He sat there in his hutch, keeping me company and watching me play Duke Nukem 3D or whatever I had on.
It was wonderful, Fidge loved the violence and bloodshed and I loved his laidback company.
This was co-existent bliss...
But alas, it was not meant to be...
Fidge had a hutch outside for the summer... his summer home if you will... this soon became his permanent home.
I still saw him in the mornings and evenings and when it was nice out, but it wasn't the same.
As my Dad's illness got worse (oh yes, he was very ill) my mum found less time to clean him out and I just simply made a balls up of it.
So Fidge was sat in abject squalor for a few months.
He changed, from being laid-back and content, he just became depressed.
So we gave him a grand clean out and built him a run out on the grass with the plan of moving it around to new grass and letting his shit pile fertilise the lawn.
He seemed happier for a bit, but then we just kept putting off moving.
He became a mess, being a pretty long furred rabbit, things stuck to him - predominantly, shit.
He was cleaned one day, only to be found with the mother of all 'dingleberries' stuck to his hind quarters.
We cut it off and gave him a shower and moved the run.
But sadly, history repeated itself and Fidge ended up in the same conditions in the summer of '04.
I went out to feed him his lettuce one morning and saw that he didn't spurt from his hutch like normal for breakfast (he loved his food).
I opened the roof and was sat in the corner looking quite off.
"Yalright?" I asked, stroking his fur, he was shaking.
"Maybe a fox or something spooked him last night" I reasoned.
I informed my mum of this reasoning and trotted off to school, thinking nothing more of it.
Tea time came and I went and fed him, only his breakfast was still there untouched.
I opened the lid and he was still there shaking in the corner.
I went back in and told the mother that it looked like Fidge was sick and gave my reasons.
These were promptly overlooked in light of the fact that the Antiques Roadshow was on.
Same procedure the next day and the day after.
Eventually, on the week end I got mum out to have a look. She lifted him up "ooh, he feels lighter" and something white & wriggly dropped off.
"Is that a maggot?" I asked my mum.
"Oh no" she muttured before sprinting inside with him.
I found her washing him in the shower only the water was pink. (Oh no)
She lifted him up by his front paws, and I saw amongst the bloody, matted fur - his hind quarters.
Writhing in maggots.
To cut a very long story down to a long story, Fidge had contracted blowfly.
Basically, due to not cleaning him much, a fly had landed on his shit covered rear and laid it's eggs, which then just started eating everything in site.
He had been like that for half a week.
We took him to the vet and had him put down the same way.
What a horrible way to go.
I hate myself for what happened to Fidge.
There's no good excuse for it.
So to all rabbit owners - especially long haired ones - clean the regularly.
Length? Longer than a long longcat.
Apologies for the depressing nature and the massive length.
(, Sun 9 Dec 2007, 16:33, 1 reply)
arghFlystrike is a horrific thing. Poor bunnies - although if it makes you feel any better, some are just horribly prone to it, no matter how well looked after they are..
(, Tue 11 Dec 2007, 23:49, closed)
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