Pet Hates

When I started this blog, we were close to Christmas, the season of good will to all men/ women/ don’t knows. So I thought I would share some of my many pet hates with you. And if I remember, some of the few things I love.

Not that I hate pets exactly. But I’m not totally bowled over by them.

I don’t like cats. But they seem to single me out for The Treatment when they sidle into the room. I guess they have some kind of inbuilt antenna that allows them to sense when someone is uncharitably disposed towards them. Add to that a weird sense of humour, come to think of it. So they make an immediate beeline for my lap. Since this only happens when we are visiting other people, I’m kind of stuck with the situation. And stuck by it, since my half-hearted petting of the pet only encourages it to sharpen its claws on my trousers. I guess there’s a natural law hidden somewhere in there.

Dogs, on the other hand, I’ve always had time for. I was brought up with a black lab that was more intelligent than most people I know and far more loyal. But as fate would have it, all other dogs have it in for me. If they’re fenced in or chained up when I pass, they strain to break through their bonds so they can leap out and attack me. If they’re off the leash, they waste no time straining and do exactly that. What amazes me more than this behaviour is that of their owners when this happens. They either glare at me as if this was my fault. I must obviously have provoked the poor animal in some way. Or they try to make out that their pet was only displaying some bizarre form of affection by ripping a hole in my jacket. Oddest of all was the reaction of a woman in Costa Rica when her boxer took a piece out of my trousers. ‘He’s a rescue dog, you know’, she said. So that’s all right then.

As for the other varieties of domesticated animals, since they’re usually to be found in cages, I feel little other than pity for them, or in the case of birds, barely suppressed outrage.

But there’s more to hate than this, of course. I have only respect for any animal that is not house-trained. Though I make an exception in the case of flies and mosquitoes.

So most of my other hates are strictly confined to objects or the humans that make them. Especially certain varieties of humans.

I hate:-

Politicians that don’t answer the question. Either they don’t know the answer, or they don’t want us to know it.
Politicians that do answer the question. They are lying.
Travelling by air to exotic locations. (See previous blogs.)
Air passengers that purchase priority boarding so they can spend five minutes deciding where to stow their hand baggage in empty overhead bins, in the meantime blocking the aisles so no-one else can pass.
Manicured lawns and robot mowers.
Stem wine glasses. These are asking to be broken, and usually are. Throw them in the fireplace and use a beaker instead.
Takeaway disposable coffee cups. They are, whatever claims are made to the contrary, designed to burn your fingers. Add to that the miniscule hole which you’re supposed to drink your coffee through. These were perhaps invented for those who have had lip implants. I’ve yet to find a hole that fits my lips. The end result is the same every time I attempt to drink through the opening in question. (Not that often admittedly; I don’t get out much these days.) Most of the coffee ends up streaming down my shirt. I’m getting old enough not to be reminded that a second babyhood awaits me.

My wife tries to help. ‘Take off the lid instead,’ she says quite sensibly. So now I scald my fingers even more as I try to prise the tight top off; then comes the lid’s sudden lunge for freedom and half the coffee ends on my lap instead. Other quite normally gifted people seem to manage all this without difficulty. As for me, I never travel anywhere these days without a change of clothes.

And while we’re talking about the pollution of the planet (disposable cups, if you missed the connection) and the resulting devastation of the natural environment, might I make a plea on behalf of the Noise Abatement Society? It’s stating the obvious to point out that sleek and expensive sports cars are to be regarded as penis extenders. But in the absence of enough cash to buy a Ferrari F40, the alternative appears to be to surgically remove the exhaust baffle on your Toyota Corolla/ souped-up moped/ invalid carriage, then cruise about town in search of simple-minded women who equate decibels with sex appeal.

To be honest, I shouldn’t care about this. We don’t live in town. But unfortunately in summer, the cruising extends down our dirt road to a lake and tends to coincide with crate-loads of empty beer cans lining our ditches the next day.

In a similar vein, can anyone explain to me why mobile phones leave the factory fitted with a whole variety of electronic bells and whistles to signal all manner of warnings, notifications and messages? I’ve managed to get rid of most of them now. But still can’t lose the early warning system that comes when I turn the phone on. I suppose I could turn the volume to zero, but my phone seems to take this as a sign that I want to take a photograph. Indeed, this is also the result if I press a variety of different keys. No doubt the built-in AI is trying to persuade me to get out more.

And yes, if you are still shell-shocked by the fact that I turn the phone on occasionally, which presupposes I actually turn it off equally often, then I can only confirm the fact. I see no need to have the phone on when I go to bed. And in my geriatric view, nor should anyone else. In fact, I suspect that those who complain most about the intrusive nature of the mobile phone are precisely those that never turn the damned thing off.

And while I’m sounding off about mobile phones and their users, I beg permission (why? I wonder, it’s my blog) to express my irritation with those that unleash themselves on the rest of the world while rendering themselves both blind and deaf to their surroundings and the general public. Yes, I mean YOU. The one walking down the street with earphones on, staring down at your phone screen and perhaps even talking to it. I appreciate that members of the psychotic community no longer feel themselves quite so marginalised, since these days it’s impossible to tell whether some is having a mobile conversation on the street or is just plain loony. But for myself, I would prefer not to have to manoeuvre my way through a horde of human automata, as if I were taking my Cycling Proficiency test again, when I am aiming simply to get from A to B.

Besides, apart from providing an ongoing traffic hazard, do these people not realise they have sacrificed the real world to the virtual reality by spending their little time outdoors in a state of sensory deprivation? I mean, who needs cyborgs when we have them already amongst us? For God’s sake, look at the trees and sky, listen to the birds, smell the flowers. Oh, right! We got rid of those, didn’t we?

PostNord – the Swedish postal service. And most other privatised public utilities, for that matter. Did the politicians really fail to notice that a ‘privatised public utility’ is a contradiction in terms? No, they didn’t. So PostGnawed is now ‘deregulated’ and co-owned by the Swedish (60%) and Danish (40%) states. A great deal for Denmark, since the Swedish arm subsidises the other side of the Sound. By which we see that it is possible for the tail to wag the dog. This means that the Swedish postal service tries to find ever more desperate ways to make a profit, or rather to cut their losses. So stamps become more and more expensive, and collection and distribution more and more erratic. We now have deliveries only three days a week, while processing the mail can take anything up to a month. To add insult to injury, the post box where we have to pick up ‘delivered’ mail is three kilometres away.

The main aim seems to be to discourage people from posting letters altogether and getting them to post parcels instead, preferably with PostNude. Especially since the pandemic, the market for online purchase and consequent home delivery has become a gold mine for carriers. To such an extent that pick-up points have proliferated. Now when we order something through the Internet we are often given a choice of twenty different methods. These include post-boxes of up to ten different freight companies, which are situated within or without cafes and shops. Even PostNord has started using this method, though they were a little slow on the uptake and haven’t quite got the hang of it yet.

Most companies that own these boxes mail you a code consisting of 4-6 digits that you enter into an electronic keyboard and hey presto, the door opens to reveal your parcel. Not so with our beloved state-owned company.

My wife was sent a code 20-digits long and was instructed to pick up the parcel at the Co-op. The first problem was to locate the boxes, since we didn’t know they existed in the first place, and they were definitely not on view. So she had to go into the shop and ask. They turned out to be located behind the building, right next to the vaping schoolboys.

Next step was to locate the necessary code. The SMS she’d been sent told her to click on the link provided. This took her to a site that showed in all their guilty glory the whole history all the parcels she’d ever ordered with the exclusion of the one she was looking for. Understandably mystified and not a little miffed, she rang the PostNod helpline to enquire and got a bot. Of course. The bot demanded she enter the 20-digit (let me repeat that, 20-digit) code the original text message contained in order to log-in. It was at this point that she decided to take a pharmaceutical break and visited the local chemist’s.

Suitably refreshed and equipped with pen and paper, she entered the code. The app then demanded she register her email address, which when you think about it did not have a great deal to do with anything really.

All things considered, I’m glad I wasn’t there. My wife doesn’t often get mad, but when she does, you’d rather choose to confront a herd of stampeding wildebeests.

Next step (for yes, dear reader, we have not yet arrived at the thrilling dénouement) was to get mobile bank authorisation as proof of identity. Thus finally she was logged in and could see her present delivery on the historical list. And now she was awarded a code she could plug into the box and extract her parcel. After she had switched on the Bluetooth and entered her Bank ID again. Goes without saying really.

A to B by way of Nuuk, Greenland. (Does Donald Trump even know where this is?)

So now we have a new supply of ink for our printer and our contribution to the paperless society.

All of which reminds me of a TV quiz show from the 1960s called Take Your Pick. It was hosted by a very tall Australian who was quite possibly a closet paedophile, since most of them, with the benefit of hindsight, turned out to be that way inclined. The quiz bit involved you surviving a minute of yes/ no questions without ever saying yes or no. If you managed to do that, you would be offered a handful of dosh or a chance to open a box containing a mystery object. The object could be really valuable or it could be a used dishcloth. While the contestant was deciding whether to open the box or take the money, the studio audience would shout their advice as to which alternative s/he should take.

If they ever reintroduce this show, it should be sponsored by PostNerd. And every time the cry should go up from the audience ‘Take the Money’.

And now to balance things up a little and dispel any notions that I am really a resentful and bitter old man…..

(You will, however, be relieved to find this list considerably shorter, even if full of juice.)

I love:-

My wife – all the time.
My family – ditto.
My wife’s family – nearly all the time
Arriving by air in exotic locations.
Birds, especially the blowsy ones.
Beethoven, Handel, Dvorak, Vivaldi in no particular order.
Leonard Cohen and Bruce Springsteen in that particular order.
Young Barbera, Stolly vodka, blended malt whisky. (What is the deal with single malts? Think I‘m an idiot? Duh?)
Indian food, bacon sandwiches, steak and kidney pie. (I am, technically speaking, a vegetarian. This is made easier by the fact that decent back bacon and any kind of steak and kidney pie are almost impossible to get hold of in Sweden.)
Everton FC – though to be honest this lies on the cusp between hate and love. My football support is very much dependent on the prevailing weather conditions.

When the dog bites,
When the fly stings,
When I’m feeling sad,
I simply remember my favourite things,
And then I don’t feel so mad.

As it were.