Pets

Today I very nearly bought myself a pet Quail. We’d deliberated over what type of pet would be suitable for student house full of transients (me), newspapers, wires and men with large beards.

Ferrets: Far too urine-soaked and hyperactive. Animal ADHD and piss don’t make the best of bedfellows.
Chipmunks: Too unpredictable. When was the last time YOU encountered a chipmunk at close range? They look as though they’d think nothing of attaching themselves to your head like a furry woodpecker and gnawing a large hole in your face. Perhaps I’m getting them confused with beavers.
Cats: Too high-maintenance.
Dogs: As demanding as cats, only far more stupid.
Tortoises: I like the idea of watching television with a tortoise on my lap, but they’re slightly out of my price range. Also, I’m not enamoured with the thought of being tremendously outlived by one’s pet.
Various assorted small rodents (Guinea Pigs, Hamsters, rats etc.): Boring, wriggly and potentially life-threatening due to their propensity to chew through electrical cables.

I’ve no idea why I thought it’d be bad news to adopt one of the above as a pet, but a good idea to buy a quail and cherish it like a stunted, mute foster child who just so happens to lay blue eggs every day. I finally came to my senses when I considered my lack of career, permanent abode and financial prospects. I don’t want to have to take a small bird to job interviews with me; I’m just not ready for that kind of commitment.

One day I’ll have a menagerie of weird and wonderful beasts. Until then, I’m aiming to visit a Llama farm in the Forest of Dean and quite possibly sneak one home with me. We could ride through the streets of Cardiff like that naked woman did in Banbury Cross, except I’ll be very fully-clothed and riding a Llama, not a horse. We could throw sweets at children (in a non-threatening, completely unpaedophilic way) or shout messages of support to disheartened drivers as we weave through traffic jams with colourful ribbons in our hair/fur and bells on our feet/hooves. It’d be beautiful, just like a scene from Into the West, only Gabriel Byrne wouldn’t be my dad (shame) and I wouldn’t be an Irish traveller and it’d again be a Llama and not a horse I was stealing AND I wouldn’t ride it to the sea and let it drown. That’d just be mean.

I do quite want a Llama as a matter of urgency. If there's any Llama thievery in South Wales or the West Country it's got ABSOLUTELY nothing to do with me. I can assure you that this post is merely theoretical and I'm not concocting some hideously complex plan to steal any Camelids*.

*I'm going to use this word in polite conversation on a regular basis from now on:

'Janet, that woman over there looks very much like a Camelid'

-OR-

'Damn these bastarding South American ungulates. They come to our country, steal our women and eat our grass. It's really not on. And Llamas are the worst Camelid of them all. I'm almost certainly going to create a petition on the Home Office website.'

-OR-

'I'm immune to your camelidic charms, Llama-face.'