I hate animals and animal lovers. I know this simple sentence has sent many of you staggering away in disbelief and horror but I promised to be honest on my blog so hear me out.
Lately, I can’t seem to make it through a day without somebody droning on about how cute, smart, adventurous, loving and loyal their little LuLu is. Usually this is done with a picture slideshow or half an hour video showing off their pet dunking a basketball or solving a math problem. Whether I am at work, on the phone or at my son’s baseball game, the conversation eventually turns to pets; phones are whipped out with lightning speed to prove to me, the non-pet lover, how their pooch/kitty/bunny will solve world peace, cure cancer and accompany their owner into their aging years in a way no human ever could.
So maybe I don’t hate animals as much as I hate animal lovers? Sadly, that isn’t the case.
At 47, sleep involves a manic heart rate, worry, sweats and a multitude of other issues that guarantee sleep doesn’t involve one thing: sleep. Eventually I’ll catch some winks for a few hours and one of the above symptoms wakes me at 5:51am. But this morning, I wouldn’t make it there because I was awakened at 4:58am by Woody the Woodpecker.
I became Buzz Buzzard, Woody’s primary antagonist, born from the legendary cartoon as Woody’s garish laugh (ho-ho-ho-ho ho, ho-ho-ho-ho ho) played like a maddening dog video over and over in my head. My husband’s attempt at heroics was to bang on the window sill twice before falling back into a twelve hour slumber. Woody must have taken that sound for the mating call of a sexy female love interest and turned his fervent pecking up a notch. Deranged from lack of sleep, I bolted upright in bed channeling my murderous impulses, normally directed at my husband, towards Woody. Not able to see him, I waved the window screen wildly around as he hammered away at everything on my house not made of wood. With both myself and the window screen now unhinged, I dangled outside hoping to scare him off with some bizarre hissing noises normally directed at my husband. Although I willed myself to stalk Woody from the roof, I didn’t trust my menopausal body to handle the slope of the steep pitch he had mastered. The pecking pounded on. I ran down the stairs and out the front door in a fit of rage never seen before on my peaceful suburban street. I prayed nobody else was yet awake as braless and crackers pretty much sums up how I looked. Woody, recognizing crazy, took off across the street.
Exhausted from my quest, I fell into a restless snooze. Little did I know, this was all part of Woody’s plan. At 7:15, he was back tormenting the gutter and my sanity like a buzz saw. Well played, Bitch.
I hate animals and animal lovers.