My name is Billy and I love animals in all their forms. As pets. As movie stars. As dinner. This blog is focused on the pets part. Growing up, I had a myriad assortment of pets over the years: three dogs, two cats, countless fish, a few frogs and oneclinically depressed turtle.
Note to my 8-year old self: A Nike shoe box is not a suitable turtle habitat.
The turtle won't appreciate it, and neither will you once it's soaked with turtle pee.
Why Other Peoples Pets, you ask? If I like animals so much, why isn't this blog called My Own Pets? The answer is simple. Since moving to Brooklyn eight years ago, I have never lived in a building that allowed pets. My first apartment's owner was so serious about not allowing pets that NO PETS appeared on every page of the lease. Going by number of mentions, one might think they were more concerned with me not having a dog and than me paying the rent on time. They so did not want animals in the building that if one of my friends was walking his dog on my block, I could invite him inside, but not the dog. If I won a goldfish at Rye Playland, I'd have to get expressed written consent from the owners of my building before I could bring it inside. My current building isn't as over the top as that first one was, but there is still a very strict NO DOGS ALLOWED policy.
But one of the great things about living in New York City is that my friends are only a short subway ride away, and so are their pets. And I love playing with my friends' pets. Whether it's having a tug-of-war with a friend's dog over a stuffed football or driving another friend's cat bonkers with that feather-on-a-stick contraption, it's all great.
Whoever created this is a genius.
There you have it, the origin of Other Peoples Pets. Think of this space as part my thoughts on pets in New York City and part blog version of that last panel of Marmaduke showcasing pets like Ruth McFarland's yellow lab, Madison.
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