We have a house guest. His name is Pig, the Guinea Pig. Spouse is caring for him until his owners return on Wednesday.
I am having nothing to do with him (the animal, not my Spouse,) because I hate animals. I know. I know. I'm a terrible person. But it is true. I hate animals. I don't hate the people that own animals, and I thought the baby elephant at the zoo was as adorable as anyone else, but I don't like having them (the animals, not the people that like them,)in my home.
5 Reasons I Hate Animals.
1. Germs. My mother and father are very different people, but of the few things they have in common (beyond their mutual distaste for the Republican Party,) is a phobia of all things germy, which, (along with a hearty distaste for the Republican Party,) they instilled in most of their children. Growing up, it was either my father encouraging us "not to touch that handrail thousands of other people have touched," or my mother forbidding us to go barefoot on the carpet in the hotel room because, "it's infested with other people's dead skin cells!"
So you can rightfully assume that it is killing me slowly to have this CREATURE in my HOUSE that spends the majority of its time sitting in its own poop and foraging for food which is often found right next to the poop. And then, Spouse would have the audacity to encourage me to PET this CREATURE. Honestly, Spouseman, honestly.
4. They smell weird.
5. I'm allergic to them anyways.
Of course, Spouse feels very differently about the situation. He spends significant amounts of time cooing at it and talking to it like it has brain larger than a brussel sprout, and convincing me that it is "cute."
I have maintained my "No Animals" position thus far, but my heart did melt a tiny bit when I saw him crouched next Pig's container and heard him whisper, "Now be good, Pig, your behavior over the next few days determines whether or not my wife let's me have one of you guys next year..."