Buying a Pet To Fill My Empty Heart

Finding my days were empty and filled with nothing but the excruciating tedium of my own company, I bought a pet.

I read online that pets help fulfil human’s base social needs when another person isn’t there to do it. Also, animals require much less effort than people. You can treat animals terrible and they’ll think no worse of you, as long as you keep them fed and rub their bellies once in a while.

But with my pet it was a struggle from the start. I read online that pets are born ready to love their owner, but mine seemed entirely indifferent to me. It acted like I wasn’t even there, like my family do when I visit at Christmas.

I read online that making your pet feel welcome was important, to get off to a good start in your relationship. You had to let them know that their space was their own, that it wasn’t made for some other pet, but for them and only them, like your whole life had been waiting for their arrival.

So I dressed the place up real nice. It was good enough for me to live in, if I could. But despite my best efforts, they didn’t seem to notice or care.

Was my pet an idiot? Am I doing something wrong? Or am I just so damn unlovable?

These are all things I searched online, and I discovered that yes, I was doing something wrong. Apparently, some pets needed to know they could trust you before they let their guard down. And trust had to be earned, not bought. They needed to see some act of devotion to know you were on their side.

I couldn’t think how to overcome this barrier in a natural way, and struggled with it a few days. During that time, I forgot to feed my pet once or twice, and they got real sick. I took a few days off work, and never once left their side until they recovered.

How’s that for devotion?

But they didn’t seem to notice, or care. They were right back to their usual self, ignoring me, as if none of that had happened.

Then I read online that people who sleep with their pets enjoy a much closer relationship. It seemed strange, but the research looked compelling, so I thought I’d give it a shot.

It was a restless night. I was worried I might crush them, or they might drop off the bed, and I couldn’t sleep. It seemed that they couldn’t get comfortable, because they were thrashing around so much, but after a while, they settled down, and I did too.

In the morning, my pet was dead. They didn’t mention this could happen.

I read online that the best thing to do with your pet fish when it dies is to flush it down the toilet — like a Viking funeral — but not knowing its wishes, I decided to just dig a little grave in my back garden and buried it in an old Weetabix box.

Next door’s cat hopped up the wall to show its respects, which I appreciated. I asked if it wanted to say a few words, but it just licked its lips. After the service I asked if it wanted to come inside where I could rustle it up some nice fish food I had going spare, but it ran away when my neighbour heard the commotion and shouted it to come home.

Filled with regret for not following the advice I read online over my fish’s funeral arrangements, the following day I stepped in my back garden to make amends but found the cereal box was on the floor and the fish was gone. I suspected the cat immediately, as the only other witness, and read online that the best way to deal with cats is to be assertive and show it who’s boss.

I put on my new pair of steel cap boots for the occasion and resolved to get some payback, but before I could do anything I noticed my fish discarded outside the back door, more or less preserved. The cat was looking on from a safe distance, having just dragged it there.

I read online that this could either be a peace offering or a gift. Apparently a cat considers itself the head of the pack and delivers murdered critters to those it deems unable to provide for themselves.

Seemed a tad judgemental, but it was a relatively fair assessment, so I accepted it, not wanting to be rude.

I fried it up with some chips and mushy peas. It was dreadful, but the cat was peering in on me through my kitchen window, so I had to pretend I enjoyed it.

My belly was full, but my heart was still empty, so I tried to lure the cat inside with the premise of leftovers. Of course, like last time, my nosy neighbour overheard the whole thing and said she’d report me if I did so much as look at her cat.

The cat lost all respect for me from that point, and I haven’t seen it since.

I was alone again, but that evening I was able to give my fish the Viking funeral it deserved.

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