by Blogbot

Featuring Vega (the Chihuahua) and Sydney (the Doberman Pinscher) – Pictured with their mistresses ViquiV (L) and Jessytai (R).

Sydney and her mom (social media maven Jessytai) are the newest members of the SuicideGirls HQ team. Sydney really loves her fellow four-legged co-worker Vega, and since they’re so damn cute together, we thought we ought to introduce them to you…

• NAME: Sydney
• INTO: Snuggling, sleeping, treats, warm beds and sunbathing.
• NOT INTO: Loud noises, the rain, and being alone.
• MAKES ME HAPPY: When my mommy gives me the plate to “clean off” when she’s done eating.
• MAKES ME SAD: When my mommy leaves.
• HOBBIES: Sleeping.
• 5 THINGS I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT: My mommy, treats, my best friend Yogi, my stairs that go up to my mommy’s bed – oh and did I already say treats?
• VICES: Barking at the mail man (I’m such a cliché, I know!).
• I SPEND MOST OF MY FREE TIME: Sleeping or begging for food.

• NAME: Vega
• INTO: Laps, sunshine, and stuffed animals.
• NOT INTO: The rain, thunder, intruders, and pooping in the dark.
• MAKES ME HAPPY: Getting attention.
• MAKES ME SAD: Being left alone.
• HOBBIES: Chasing my tail, day dreaming, and being cute.
• 5 THINGS I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT: My stuffed monkey, my stuffed tiger, my rope, chicken treats, and a good comfy lap.
• VICES: Barking at Postal workers, delivery men/women or pretty much anyone coming to the door.
• I SPEND MOST OF MY FREE TIME: Cuddling.

More Beyond Cute Posts:
Nahp Suicide, Ultima Suicide, Oogie Suicide, Rin Suicide, Tita Suicide, Kraven Suicide, Kemper Suicide, Leandra Suicide, Selahh Suicide, Lunar Suicide, Pia Suicide, Creepy Suicide, Shaddix Suicide, Ryker Suicide, Corgan Suicide, Selene Suicide, Eden Suicide, Venom Suicide, Corgan Suicide, Kewpie Suicide, Jamity Suicide, Epiic Suicide, Patton Suicide, MnemoZyne Suicide, Frolic Suicide, Shotgun Suicide, Phecda Suicide, Lavezzaro Suicide, Rourke Suicide, Antigone Suicide, King Suicide, Clio Suicide, Exning Suicide, Aadie Suicide, Pilot Suicide, Persephone Suicide, Luana Suicide, Fraise Suicide, Cheri Suicide, Jensen Suicide, Radeo Suicide, Lorelei Suicide, Scotty Suicide, Milloux Suicide, Psyche Suicide, Scotty Suicide, GoGo Suicide, Rambo Suicide, Sash Suicide

by Blogbot

Featuring Tuaina (the black puppy), Megatron (the German Shepherd), Piraña (the white kitty), Tomasa (the gray kitty), and Banano (the black kitty) – Pictured with their mistress (Nahp Suicide).

INTO:
Tutaina: All Kinds of food.
Megatrón: Bitting Kong and other stuff.
Piraña: Sleeping in shoes boxes.
Tomasa: Running away from home.
Banano: Looking for love when his mom is watching TV.

NOT INTO:
Tutaina: I don’t like it when the door bell rings.
Megatron: Strange people.
Piraña: Being held.
Tomasa: Medicine.
Banano: Strange people invading my home.

MAKES US HAPPPY:
All: Love and food.

MAKES US SAD:
Puppies: Being alone.
Kitties: The vacuum cleaner.

HOBBIES:
Puppies: Going out with our mom and her boyfriend.
Kitties: Sleeping and playing at 3:00 AM.

5 THINGS WE CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT:
Food, water, love, fun, our litter box (kitties) / car rides (puppies).

VICES:
Tutaina: I love to lick hands.
Megatron: I can’t play without biting a little bit.
Piraña: I drop to the floor to receive caresses.
Tomasa: I love get into the house next door.
Banano: I hide under the sheet and believe no one can see me (even though mom always knows where to find me).

WE SPEND MOST OF OUR FREE TIME:
Sleeping, playing, being cute, and making mom and dad smile.

Photography: Anemona

More Beyond Cute Posts:
Ultima Suicide, Oogie Suicide, Rin Suicide, Tita Suicide, Kraven Suicide, Kemper Suicide, Leandra Suicide, Selahh Suicide, Lunar Suicide, Pia Suicide, Creepy Suicide, Shaddix Suicide, Ryker Suicide, Corgan Suicide, Selene Suicide, Eden Suicide, Venom Suicide, Corgan Suicide, Kewpie Suicide, Jamity Suicide, Epiic Suicide, Patton Suicide, MnemoZyne Suicide, Frolic Suicide, Shotgun Suicide, Phecda Suicide, Lavezzaro Suicide, Rourke Suicide, Antigone Suicide, King Suicide, Clio Suicide, Exning Suicide, Aadie Suicide, Pilot Suicide, Persephone Suicide, Luana Suicide, Fraise Suicide, Cheri Suicide, Jensen Suicide, Radeo Suicide, Lorelei Suicide, Scotty Suicide, Milloux Suicide, Psyche Suicide, Scotty Suicide, GoGo Suicide, Rambo Suicide, Sash Suicide

by Blogbot

• INTO: Balls, bones, cookies, cats, following Riae into every room, chasing animals in the woods, watching TV, and wearing stupid costumes ( I like it when my mum dresses me up).
• NOT INTO: Being alone, baths, and the vacuum cleaner.
• MAKES ME HAPPY: Sleeping in bed with my mom and dad, long walks in the woods, bones, cuddles, and playing with the leash when I walk with my mom.
• MAKES ME SAD: Staying alone in the house and traveling by car.
• HOBBIES: : I love destroying tennis balls and puppets.
• 5 THINGS I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT: My mom, food, cookies, cuddles, and my blanket.
• VICES: I want all the attention for me. I’m jealous when my mum (or dad) cuddle the cats. I’m a little nasty with other dogs.
• I SPEND MOST OF MY FREE TIME: Sleeping or destroying anything in the house.

Get to know Leon’s mistress, Riae Suicide, over at SuicideGirls.com!

by Blogbot

• INTO: Chocolate, playing with my mommy, and cats!
• NOT INTO: Carrots. I HATE carrots!
• MAKES ME HAPPY: When we go out and I stay on my mommy’s shoulder the whole time, looking around and seeing people shocked!
• MAKES ME SAD: When my mommy goes out without me.
• HOBBIES: I am a rat, so you know, rat stuff, like hiding from the world and playing the whole day with other ratties!
• 5 THINGS I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT: Chocolate, hot blankets in winter, my toys, cuddles, my rat friends.
• VICES: I like to lay on my mom while she is watching a film.
• I SPEND MOST OF MY FREE TIME: Playing with my rat friends or my mom! It’s so hard living as a rat!

Get to know Chemio’s mistress, Ultima Suicide, over at SuicideGirls.com!

by Matt Dunbar

I am, and forever will be, a dog person.

As I reluctantly stumble well past my early 20′s (I use “stumble” here deliberately, as 40 years from now biographers will no doubt characterize my LiveJournal Weezer posts from this era as my “Four Loco” period) into the precipice of true adulthood, I’ve realized that identity is a rather fickle and ethereal creature.

Ten years ago I was emphatically certain of the following three things:

• 1. I was a Stones guy — the Beatles were vastly overrated.
• 2. I was a Red Vines guy — and people who ate Twizzlers were the deluded followers of an evil East-coast bastardization.
• 3. I was rabidly anti-Bush (the president, not Mr. Stefani and Co.).

Now I’m rarely emphatically certain of anything. But I do know this:

• 1. I’m a Beatles guy.
• 2. Twizzlers hit the spot every now and again, although I’m still pretty sure that’s how the Ood got to be the Ood.
• 3. I’m rabidly anti-Bush (the president AND the Mr. Stefani et al).

< ?UL>
Tastes, preferences, and people — no matter how intricately well-crafted their personas — change, and change surprisingly quickly.

Nevertheless, fifteen years from now, when I’m driving my BMW on the way to a Bachmann-Santorum rally, I will still be a dog person. The designation is partly a matter of pedigree (just let it go). My mother is a dog person, having raised two dogs as a kid and then two more as a mom. Despite having little exposure to pets growing up, my dad has evolved into even more of a dog person, sharing his bed, meals, and a disconcerting intimacy with his 4-year old Labrador that is one part Marley and Me for every two parts Fatal Attraction. I’ve been a dog person ever since I was 8 and my parents brought home Carey, a genially lazy Golden Retriever who preferred napping to fetch and somehow survived my adolescence for a full 17 years.

“Being a dog person” extends well beyond the basic duties of walking, feeding, ear cleaning, teeth brushing, and grooming – although if you skip out on any of these, you’re clearly unfit for group membership. As anyone who has walked a half mile with one of these fucking travesties of design filled to the brim can readily attest, a true love of dogs implies a certain value system. Everyone has got to have a code…and dog people are well-aware of their own.

Although such value systems vary considerably according to breed (i.e. Doberman owners should have their own DSM IV designation), dog people typically place an inordinate emphasis on loyalty, empathy, affection, spending time outdoors, and unconditional love. This is certainly not to say that non-dog people never leave their dingy Williamsburg studio apartments except to cheat on their wives and see their shrinks about their allergy to human touch. It’s simply to point out that that if dog people were a movie, they’d be directed by John Hughes.

Dog people cherish how their dog greets them at the door every time they return from a two hour car trip as if it was V-E day. They love the fact that dogs are genuinely excited to leave the house anytime the leash is jangled, no matter how many times they’ve trekked the same cul-de-sacs and parks. We even secretly like the fact that if Bernie Madoff or Khalid Sheikh Mohammed or Michael Bay had a dog, those dogs would love them with sincerest devotion.

Perhaps more than anything, dog people are defined by what they are not: cat people. Or, more precisely, what they perceive as cat people.

Don’t worry, I’m not going attempt to disentangle the intricate pathologies that explain why cat people love cats. Instead, I’ll offer a simple exercise a cat person buddy of mine and I came up with involving mutual pop culture heroes that quite satisfyingly cleans up the messy ambiguities of the dog/cat people divide. Feel free to play along at home.

The Office:

• Jim – Dog Person
• Dwight – Dog Person…mostly because of the functionality. Although if anyone could force a cat to hunt, it would be Dwight.
• Angela – Duh
• Andy –A toughy, but a Cat Person. Based on his capacity to endure callous indifference and unrequited love.

Doctor Who:

• The Doctor – Cat Person. Simply can’t handle a dog’s physical and emotional dependence. Robot dogs don’t count. This one is a huge victory for cat people, no matter how you cut it.
• Amy Pond – Whatever pet she had would die within 6 months because of owner ineptitude. Disqualified.
• Rory – Dog Person.

Breaking Bad:

• Walt Season 1 – Dog Person with Cat Person Tendencies.
• Walt after Season 1 – Cat Person.
• Gustavo – The cat person I wish I was.
• Jesse – See Amy Pond.

We argued for about an hour over Kurt Cobain. Still unsettled. Dave Grohl is definitely a dog person though…

My own aversion to cat people stemmed from a simple two-step corollary:

• 1. Cats are assholes.
• 2. There has to be something wrong with people who love assholes.
  (This latter point is a major quiver in the “Cobain was a cat person” argument. No offense, Courtney.)

Up until very recently, I felt that cats really didn’t qualify as pets – a sentiment shared by many dog people. Cats were essentially reluctant roommates whose only redeeming quality was the ability to shit and piss in a box without direction. This made them slightly better than convalescent in-laws.

I though that cats were assholes partly because of a generally misguided prejudice, but also because of Schlomo – the cat I was forced to share a bedroom with during a prolonged period of unemployment. On the asshole spectrum, Schlomo was somewhere between Kanye West and Newt Gingrich.

From the moment we brought him into the house, Schlomo seemed determined to lay claim to the pet douchebag throne. Whenever my dog would re-enter the house after eating her food outside, Schlomo would wait patiently by the door, where upon her return he would literally punch her in the face with his cat-paw. The message from Schlomo was unmistakable: you do not eat in my presence without getting punched in the face.

For almost every afternoon for a solid year, he would without provocation charge my sister and bite her on the leg, until he was officially banned from her room. If there was any type of reading material you enjoyed –– newspapers, magazines, paperbacks, hardcovers –– it would be torn to shit within fifteen minutes of you putting it down. There is no doubt in my mind that he would deliberately spill cat litter in front of my fan at night, so that speckles of his shit blew into my lungs while I slept.


Even his ostensive acts of kindness were subsumed in a broader cat mindfuck strategy. Schlomo never cuddled up to you, like some cats do, asking implicitly to be petted and cared for and loved. He would simply shove his ass in your face until you had no choice but to pet him, at which point he would turn around and stare at you mockingly, as if to say, “Isn’t it ironic, I weigh 8 pounds yet you bow to all of my arbitrary commands.” Then, after 5 minutes of petting, instead of simply ambling off to do other cat things, Schlomo let you know he was done with his grooming session by biting you in the arm.

Thus, when my live-in girlfriend at the time told me she had adopted a cat from a local shelter, I greeted the news with understandable trepidation. My level-headed protests (“Cat litter…IN YOUR FUCKING LUNGS!”) and pleas to wait 30 years until we could finally afford an Australian Shepherd fell on deaf ears. So, as a result of the overwhelming combination of disposable income and repressed maternal instincts, we welcomed Arthur, the rust-colored kitten, into our cramped one-bedroom apartment.

Knowing all too well from Schlomo the feline capacity for evil, I approached Arthur with a stern, suspicious demeanor somewhere between spiritually broken high school teacher and cheated-on divorcee. One day, while he curled up on my lap in an obvious attempt to manipulate me into murdering my girlfriend, I explained to him how things were going to operate in my household: “Listen here, Arthur, let’s get one thing straight. You are not MY cat. You are the substitute for the child I never wanted, and I’ll treat you as such.”

That attitude held firm for the first six months. But, over time, and despite clearly knowing his day to day existence depended exclusively on my girlfriend, Arthur began displaying what I can only describe as “true pet” behaviors towards me. I would come home from work, and he would greet me at the door. I would settle in to watch Thursday night TV, and he would curl up on the couch right next to me. We even got to the point where I taught him a game of pseudo-fetch with one of his mouse-shaped cat toys, if you define fetch as a primarily solitary activity.

Without really realizing what was happening, I even began to become a fan of Arthur’s distinctly un-doglike characteristics. When his litter box was full and he couldn’t get our attention, Arthur would politely notify us by taking a small pee in our shower. Although my girlfriend was dismayed by this, I was fucking astounded and rewarded him with as many awful-smelling cat treats as he wanted. I love dogs, but there’s no way a dog would even consider not shitting in the middle of your shag carpeted living room when push came to shove.

When my girlfriend and I split up, I was tasked with taking care of Arthur until she could find a pet-friendly apartment. As any dog-person knows, break-ups are a particularly good time to have a dog. You want to be in the paws of someone that has known you forever and (despite that) still likes you. In my mind, there was little Arthur could do but serve as a reminder of when the relationship didn’t consist of arguing over what we can and can’t afford at Trader Joe’s.

But, to his credit, Arthur seemed to sense what was going on and exhibited the one emotion I thought cats completely incapable of: empathy. He curled up with me more than he used, slept on the bed more than he used to, meowed and chirped in response to my sarcastic quips about his weight more than he used to. Granted, all this may have something to do with the fact that, at any moment, I could decide to go on a bender and neglectfully reduce his diet to wayward moths and Chex mix sofa crumbs. But I prefer to think of it as cat empathy.

When I gave him and his mouse-toys up and returned to my excruciatingly unoccupied apartment, my conversion was complete. Well, mostly. I’ll never be a cat person, but I’ll reluctantly admit now that cats can be decent pets. Just don’t put their litter box near your fan.

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