Bathroom Monologue: Pet Peeves

She stroked the bulging little monster between the ears. Still it growled, nostrils flaring and fangs bearing at all the people texting and talking on cell phones in the park.

"He's getting bigger," said Shirley.

Gina beamed and hugged her newest pet. "You know, he was just seven ounces last week. I can barely stand any sort of conversation now that isn't downright deep. Even you're getting on my nerves."

"Seven ounces?" Shirley turned up her nose. "How much is that in kilograms? You know, the rest of the world is on metric."

"Oh, you. That's a pet I haven't picked up yet."

"Well are you feeding him right?"

Somewhere, a nosy vibrate setting went off. The monster barked. Gina stroked his fur.

"Morning, noon and night he gets excessive helpings of attention I should be spending on my job and family."

"Have you tried generics? They can live on emotional table scraps."

"I would do that, but he likes the full meal better. He's so hungry."

Shirley's not-so-clever ring-tone went off in her purse. She jerked to shut it off while Gina restrained the monster, which snarled at Shirley.

Shirley checked the number. No one important. Silenced, she shoved the cell back into her purse. She looked from her friend to the little monster. They had the same fuming expression. It made her wonder about her own little growing hatreds.

"I guess all pet peeves are like that."