My job at the super-duper market is to fill the shelves on the pet food aisle. I have to make sure it is all topped up with Meaty Chunky Pussy Grub, and Mr Woofles' Doggy Chox, and Munchy Hamster Nibbles, Parrot Spam and Snake Cheese. Some of these pets eat better than I do, although this is not difficult as I mostly subsist on a diet of Ritz crackers and pickled onion Monster Munch. Mmmm, yummy.
Sometimes the customers ask me questions, which is very distracting when you are supposed to be getting the tins all lined up neatly. Like for instance, this lady came in and asked what kind of gravy was best for her pet poodle. I said that it depended on how she was going to cook him, and she was all grotty and said that my joke wasn't at all funny. I told her that I wasn't joking, but she had already gone off to complain to the manager.
You see the problem is that I have never had a pet. Not a proper one, anyway. When I was little, we had a goldfish but it was already dead when we bought it. I used to take it for a drag round the park until it got too manky and bits started falling off. Then there was Gary, of course. Gary was a spider who lived in my garage, although he was more of a tenant than a pet. He was a very special spider because he had ten legs and could weave really artistic-looking webs. He legged it, still owing me three weeks' rent, and the last I heard he had an exhibition of his work on at Tate Liverpool.