Dr. Doolittle, I salute you.

I finally figured out what the good is in having pets around.  I talk to my pets, don't you?  For example, when I walked Oliver in the cold rain yesterday morning and he refused to pee, I told him he was being a little dick. I didn't yell at him or kick him or even use an angry voice, I just called him a dick.  I regularly talk about how fat my cat Coco is.  I tell Thunder Cat he's a cry-baby. 

Lest you think I'm (only) abusive, I also shovel the praise and affection on them, except for Thunder who really has no personality.  Oliver is the best boy in the world; Coco is the beautiful girl, and on and on.  I use a honey-baby-sweetie voice on them that I wouldn't dare use with people.  I communicate with them in an unfiltered way and I freely throw labels around.  Smart!  Stupid!  Best!  Worst!

In my human communications, I try to be nice.  I try to think before I speak.  I don't call people names.  Even praise of my children is cautiously dished out.  I don't tell them they are the prettiest or smartest girls in the world (even though they are) because I don't want to label them.  This is why the human-pet relationship is therapeutic.  I can get out of the binding Spanx of politeness and just hang out in the fat pants of whatever-the-fuck-is-on-my-mind.  It's relaxing to call my cat a whore.