I love animals. So much I could eat them.
My memorable first contact with animals was when, aged 5, I started feeding pigeons on my windowsill. It took a week for the windowsill to rot , submerged by the shit of every single pigeon living in my city.
Convincing the pigeons never to come back proved very hard. They would always return.
So I smeared superglue on the windowsill. They got the message.
Despite living in a tiny apartment and having to share a small bedroom with my parents and my sister, and with the aid of my imploring big brown eyes, I successfully convinced my parents that we had far too much space.
I also convinced them that I could not possibly turn into a mentally stable adult, unless I could share such tiny space with pets.
Since the signs of a rather unstable mind were visible since a young age, my parents gave in.
The animals started moving in and my father moved out. I felt it was a pretty good deal, at the time.
Teresina the duckling (also referred to as "the fluffy bundle of joy") was bought at a local fair.
Such purchase had a deep purpose: my mother wanted to introduce her young, already
unstable child, to the concept of death. Everyone knew ducklings do not survive very long, when they live in a shoe box.
Teresina (also referred to as "that fucking bird that never dies") , however, seemed to thrive in a shoe box. When the shoe box collapsed under her weight, The bird got an upgrade and was allowed to roam freely in the tiny kitchen.
She turned into the most beautiful goose, which prompted my mum to go back to the fair and demanded for her money back. She felt she had been conned: she paid for a duckling, not a gosling.
Teresina became part of the family and was loved by everyone, except my Nan, whose involvement in her life was solely to clean her crap from kitchen appliances.
It was my grandma who suggested that Teresina (also referred to as "the fucking bird that craps everywhere") would be moved to a better home, "surrounded by friends".
Once again I implored by mum, using the big brown eyes technique , but my grandma had a most powerful weapon: she declared she was no longer willing to clean goose feaces from forks and knives.
At the thought of finding a bird's turd in her spaghetti Bolognese, my mum gave in and Teresina was moved to a better home. Not long after, I discovered that "surrounded by friends" really meant "surrounded by roast potatoes and covered in gravy". My mental stability got worse from there.
In order to put a smile back on my face (and probably to distract me from noticing that my dad had moved out), my mother agreed to many more of my requests.
Piuma was a beautiful parakeet . He used to absolutely love coffee. He could drink up to 5 cups a day, little bugger! He lived a happy life until a stroke sadly took his life.
I never understood what could have caused it.
I mourned for months after the funeral.
Baffy the turtle was bought hoping I could start smiling again.
She was a peculiar turtle, with obvious suicidal tendencies.
I always felt we had so much in common.
At any given opportunity, she would skydive (with no parachute!) from the top of the wardrobe and crash on the floor. Despite her dark desires, I'm confident she lived a happy life. Until one day she successfully killed herself.
For sometime I blamed myself. Knowing her tendencies I should not have kept her on top of the wardrobe. But have you ever seen a little turtle jumping from a wardrobe? It's freaking hilarious!
She looked so peaceful, dead. I thought she was sleeping. In fact I only realised she was dead after a month, when maggots came out of her butt hole.
Despite the previous disastrous experience with the goose, I was allowed to have a chick, which rhymes with....oh never mind.
I'm not even sure how I managed to convince 'mamma', possibly going on a hunger strike played its part.
After refusing pasta for two consecutive days, she became seriously worried for my wellbeing. If you are Italian, you simply do not refuse pasta.
My mum gave in . I got lasagna and a chick.
The chick (called The Chick) became my obsession.
I developed paranoia. I was convinced that at any moment, someone looking like my grandma would
snatch it away from me and put it in a frying pan.
So for his entire existence (8 days, 3 hours and 12 minutes) The Chick lived in my sleeve.
He lived a happy life until the day I accidentally suffocated him under my armpit.
What a way to go, huh?
Tiffany the cat arrived when I was 10. The day he arrived he tried to remove one of my eyeballs from its socket.
The day after he was gone.
I don't think he had a happy life, but I don't really care because he was a bastard.
Gino the hamster was one of my favourite pets.
He could eat and eat and eat until he nearly exploded. Chips with mayo and cheeseburgers were his favourite. At the end he did indeed exploded, but not for the food.
I sat on him.
Until then he seemed genuinely happy though.
At least he died on a full stomach, so he couldn't really complain, could he?
I love animals, I really do.
So much I could eat them.
In fact I often do.
But I'm never mean.
Just always hungry.
