Where Your Entitlement Stops

We’re on the road in a min-RV during the winter of 2013,  as I write this essay. Just yesterday, our eight-year-old cat ran off and we’re sorting out our feelings and rearranging our mobile life to go on without him. He was a real member of our now-two-species family and this is as much of a loss as when an old friend who I hadn’t seen in several years died.

Our cat, Spike, was as full of personality and as loving as 90% of the human population and overwhelmingly more so than any Republican I’ve ever met. When my wife or I were sick, Spike would sit as close to us as possible and try be a comfort. When I was working in the basement shop or the attic studio, Spike would pick a chair and just hang out for as long as I worked. When Robbye was in her art studio, Spike had a favorite chair that was reserved for him. He was dependable, quiet, friendly company, always. When we were trapped in the house during winter storms, he would strike up a running battle with the dog and the two would play for hours. It was impossible not to think he was playing for our laughter. And we laughed at the two animals for hours over the seven years Spike lived with us. When we realized he had gone so far from the RV that he wouldn’t be able to find his way back, all of us (dog included) spent a somber day searching for him and hoping, pointlessly, that he might return. He didn’t and we had to move on.

Every loss should bring change, more than just the loss. After losing Spike, I decided to change my own tolerance of poor manners. Having pets means that the lowest class of people all seem to believe you should give a shit about their phobias or allergies or general hypochondria. Entering someone’s house is a privilege, not a right. Decent manners would require one to shut the fuck up about your piddly problems with their home and enjoy the privilege. Or leave. Your choice. I could care less which option you pick as long as I don’t have to hear about it.

When someone comes into our home and immediately feels the need to tell us about their cat allergy or how much they dislike cats/dogs/kids/white paint, I’m done with them from here out. Since they were clearly raised by undisciplined, arrogant, entitled morons who taught their little retards that the whole world should be interested in their sub-human problems, I don’t need to know more about them. Seriously. I’m not interested. Keep it to yourself.

As a degenerating society, we have moved beyond the point where it was once socially unacceptable to talk about “religion and politics” to the disgusting point where strangers think all of the rest of the world should give a shit about their personal problems. I don’t. If you have food allergies, bring your own food. Don’t waste my time jabbering about your piddly genetic defects. As far as I’m concerned, the world is over-stuffed with human beings and anything that reduces human population is a good thing, so don’t expect me to pick through your salad to make it safe. In fact, you might double-check your food to be sure I don’t intentionally slip some peanuts or whatever under a leaf.

Letting a host know that their home isn’t properly outfitted for you is clearly impolite and arrogant. So, don’t bother. I don’t care and I’m going to let you know, in Spike’s memory, how little I care about your genetic or personality defects. In fact, I’m perfectly happy to watch you vanish from the planet if you are so genetically defective that you can’t survive on a world full of animals other than yourself.

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