The Inner Monologue

Let me start by saying: I get pets. Dogs? Adorable chaos machines. Cats? Tiny narcissistic roommates who graciously allow you to live in their home. Even fish—fine, they’re basically living screensavers, but at least they shimmer prettily while you zone out.

But then… there’s the others.

You know who I’m talking about. The pets that barely acknowledge your existence. The ones that don’t wag, purr, or even blink in a way that suggests they recognize you as anything more than a warm-blooded vending machine. I’m looking at you, reptile enthusiasts, bug collectors, and bird owners whose feathered “companions” would sooner filet your finger than sit on your shoulder like a Disney sidekick.

What’s the appeal? Is it the thrill of owning something that stares at you like you’re an inconvenient piece of furniture? The joy of feeding a creature that would 100% eat you if it grew three sizes larger? Or is it just the aesthetic—decorating your home with a living, breathing paperweight that occasionally sheds its skin like a haunted sweater?

Look, I’m not here to yuck anyone’s yum. If you want to spend your weekends hand-feeding mealworms to a tarantula named Princess Fluffbottom, go forth and live your truth. But don’t act shocked when the rest of us side-eye your “pet” that has all the personality of a stapler and the emotional range of a toaster.

At least a dog wags its tail when you walk in. A cat might grace you with a disdainful flick of the ear. But your pet scorpion? It’s just sitting there. Judging you. Waiting. Plotting.

And you call this companionship?

(But hey, you do you. Just… maybe don’t invite me over for “cuddle time” with your python.)