Rottweilers don’t give two fucks about fashion, which is lucky because at the pet shop on 163 they sell about 20 different styles of dog shoes and it’s all underarm-teacup-type sizes. It’s so hard to find stuff for the fuller figure in CharmingVille. But suck it up, Kaiser. That’s the Bodes all over when you’re a creature of size. Along with nanoscopic footwear for doglets you can get a weeny outfit and a matching clutch to put little Shitster in when you tire of him peeing down your kaftan at the next Meta House thing.
Apart from the canine clothes and accessories there’s little else for the rest of god’s creatures. Not a cat hat, lizard legging or beak warmer to be had for love or money. Snake belts are like hens’ teeth. I swung by there last weekend to purchase a tasteful merkin for my obscenely testicled rescue rabbit. He’s about 19 in human years with balls about the size of a 19-year-old human. Seriously. Those massive danglers are so completely out of proportion to the rest of his sorry physique that when they dropped I thought they were tumours and panic-Googled for an hour. Apparently it’s quite normal. But still. And he’s only got three working legs so his knackers just flap around in the atmosphere where a fourth leg would normally hide ‘em. I don’t judge him but it’s embarrassing when guests come over and Bunny’s just lying around, nuts out. They’re mesmerising and not in an attractive way. Plus he’s no oil painting – kind of a splotchy orange with hairless veiny ears and a mouth like a cat’s arse. So not the most attractive lagomorph on the block, then. It’s why we decided against a Facebook page.
He sniffs at any sun-warmed local market greens but devours crisper-fresh Bayon herbs. Coriander and dill are favourites. God help us if they’re out of season in Latvia or wherever they come from. On the weekend the crinkle of homecoming shopping bags has him skittering to meet us, trying his best at those vertical joy jumps that rabbit-nerds call ‘binkies’. On three legs he’s not Nadia Comaneci. He only drinks Evian.
Despite the massive gobbets, the ginger-no-mates pelt and the champagne tastes, he’s quieter than kids and watches American Idol tucked up in my armpit, nibbling imported gluten-free muesli and Arnott’s water crackers. He grooms our furniture, which saves me half an hour dusting. He likes to host the occasional rice knees-up on the balcony for his chittering sparrow mates. He’s a literal party animal.
Most entertainingly he grimly and regularly fucks anything that doesn’t move. This could be a chair leg or an actual leg. Rabbits do have sex faces. They are eerily familiar. On frenzied completion he’ll swoon dramatically and wake up seconds later as if nothing had happened. Pff. No surprise since 94% of our genes rabbits also have.
And if the arsehole neighbour comes to our door muttering and unlocking his service revolver, Bunster bravely thumps the bejesus out of his solitary hindquarter to let us know shit’s going down. I don’t know how he knows it’s him and not the man with the water bill. Bunny is an actual pet detective with x-ray vision and supernatural powers. He may be a libidinous, unattractive three-legged Paul the Octopus, but I wuvs him.
Committing to a companion animal other than your other half is as strangely liberating and transformative as it is comforting. I stopped worrying about life being so much better somewhere I wasn’t. A little furry mate turns a transient stop in an alien land into a feel-good place to call forever home. I’m heartwarmed to see more and more foreign pet lovers here in CharmingVille. And not just the good folk who liberate bestringed kittens dancing for the tourist dollar at Wat Ounalom, or rescue wormy street puppies from a terminal game of chicken with the oncoming traffic (bless you everyone, by the way).
When I’m wondering what the fuck I’m doing here, I see some hot new bloke taking his beagle to the shops in a tuk tuk, or a French chick gamely dragging up and down Riverside on the end of a standard poodle. I’m not alone in my choice of one-horse hometown. CharmingVille is the cat’s pyjamas after all.
This column was first published in Advisor Issue 111.