If you think owning a pet shop is 100% fun, games, goldfish and cuteness then think again. It's all dogs shitting blood and requests for turkey shampoo...
My name’s Steve, I own a pet shop and I fucking hate it.
It wasn’t meant to be like this. I used to have a steady 9-5 job, company car, final salary pension scheme, prospects. That wasn’t enough though. I could do better for myself, be my own boss, call the shots, so I gave all that up AND BOUGHT A FUCKING PET SHOP.
It was going to be easy, I would stand behind a counter, people would browse my selection of quality pet products at reasonable prices, fill their baskets and give me money. Piece of piss.
But no, they come in and they stay, sometimes for hours, they talk to me, tell me about their pets, tell me why they’ve bought every individual item, who they’ve bought it for and which is his favourite. They bombard me with questions like they’re talking to a vet. They come into the pet shop because their dog is shitting blood and they expect me to have the cure. The best I can offer is a box of bonios and a squeaky rubber ball to shove up Fido’s arse.
Some days I dream of coming into contact with a sane, paying customer but instead a parade of fucking idiots pass by my face and ask me questions like :-
Have you got any bacon and egg sandwiches ? (café two doors away)
Can you mend my glasses ? (opticians next door)
Do you sell turkey shampoo ?
Do you sell windscreen wipers ?
What have you got for £5?
Do you sell cigarettes ?
What have you got to stop my dog licking his bollocks ?
Why has my guinea pig died? (produces dead guinea pig)
Is this hamster dead or asleep? (produces semi rotting corpse of hamster)
I’ve also managed to accumulate a collection of unemployable wankers who’ve befriended me and regularly use my shop as a drop in centre to pass the time. As I’m writing this one of them has come in to show me his new pair of trainers. Sometimes they get mistaken for staff and have been known to close sales, while I just stand there pinching myself in the hope that I’ll wake up and be back behind the desk at a proper job away from this living hell.
On the odd occasion someone does want to buy something it’s rare for them to just hand the money over. For some inexplicable reason they feel they are in an environment where they can barter. Now if you’re in Marrakesh or even a used car showroom then fine, try your luck. When you spend a tenner in Morrisons don’t expect them to throw you a free loaf of bread in, and while I’m at it don’t offer me £3 for something that’s price marked £4.99. I’ll tell you to FUCK OFF.
If I try to escape for a sandwich or I’m in the queue at the post office they spot me and feel compelled to give me an update on the fucking budgie I sold them three years ago. They’ll stop me in the street and ask me what the best flea treatment is and then fuck off and buy it from Poundland.
Need to find your kids something to do in the school holidays, no problem leave them in the pet shop while you spend some quality ‘me’ time in Primark. The little fat four eyed bastard who works there will be delighted to let them trash his emporium while listening to them squeak every single dog toy on display. He’d like nothing better than to hear them announce a rabbit is dead at the top of their voice and have to go and prod it to prove it’s asleep. Then when you’ve finished in Primark you can just stand at the door and shout your feral offspring and he’ll see them off with a cheery wave.
For balance, there are some nice aspects to the job though, I just can’t think of any.