My Pet Rock

My Pet Rock

Hello world. This is Neil, he's my pet rock. Yes I know stupid name for
a lump of stone,
but it seems to suit him. Doesn't say much does he? That's because he's
made of stone,
and therefore has no personality.

Well as pets go, I suppose he's not bad, I've had better, but well a
lump of rock's better
than nothing at all. He's economical to keep, doesn't chew the
furniture, doesn't need
taking for walks and doesn't wee on the carpet.

On the other hand, he doesn't fetch a stick, or anything else for that
matter, is about as
cuddly as Niagara Falls, and could never be relied on in a crisis. He's
cold and hard, as
loyal as you'd expect a lump of rock to be, and as conversational as
Oliver Reed after a
night out with a very large vodka bottle.

Having a pet rock is like having Fools Gold, you think you have
something worth
having, but in reality all you have is a weight in your pocket and
something shiny to attract
the magpies.

I painted a face on him see? It made him appear more human, but he
doesn't smile much,
and when he does, it never reaches his eyes. He doesn't have a heart,
so no warmth can be
reflected in his painted eyes from there. No soul. No conscience. No
feelings.

I come home from work, and he's there. Just sitting, no welcome, no
obvious signs of
pleasure at my return, no wagging tail.

I don't think I want my pet rock anymore. I haven't seen any car
stickers saying "A
rocks for life, not just for Christmas" so I may recycle him as a door
stop for the garage. I
don't think I could either sell him, or even give him away.

Would you like my rock? Oh everybody else calls him my husband, but to
me; well he's
just a lump of inanimate stone.