I am Animal Abuse. Yes, *the* Animal Abuse. Not an animal that's been abused, mind you – though I’ve certainly been present for those unfortunate occurrences – but the very concept itself. The abstract notion, the regrettable action, the regrettable *inaction*. For centuries, millennia even, I’ve existed. A shadow, a whispered shame, a fleeting glance. My life, if you can call it that, has been one of quiet, pervasive ubiquity.
My daily grind? It’s relentless. I’m in the forgotten water bowls, the tangled chains, the sudden, inexplicable kicks. I’m in the vacant stares of neglected pets and the weary sighs of working animals pushed too far. I’m in the “accidents” that were anything but, and the deliberate cruelties no one saw. My colleagues are Indifference, Ignorance, and occasionally, good old-fashioned Spite. We’re a busy bunch, always clocking in. And for all this diligent work, my compensation has typically been… well, nothing. A tut. A shrug. A quick social media post before moving on to cat videos.
But lately, things have changed. In Chaco, of all places, my profile has soared. Suddenly, I’m a big deal. Million-dollar fines! Effective imprisonment! Me! *Animal Abuse*! It’s like being a background actor who suddenly landed a lead role in a high-stakes legal drama. My agents (the activists, the legislators) are finally pushing for some serious recognition. It’s flattering, I suppose, to be deemed worthy of such punitive measures. It means I'm being taken seriously, not just as a regrettable occurrence, but as a criminal enterprise. My once-modest portfolio of minor offenses now includes "felonies with extreme prejudice."
The attention is a double-edged sword, though. While I appreciate the newfound gravitas, it also means I’m under more scrutiny. Every snarl, every forgotten meal, every abandoned creature is now potentially a headline, a court case. I’m expected to justify these astronomical figures, these looming prison sentences. It’s a lot of pressure, especially when you consider my entire existence has been predicated on being largely *ignored*.
Frankly, I never wanted to be important. My ideal future is one where I'm obsolete, a forgotten footnote in the history of compassion. A concept so irrelevant, so foreign, that people can barely remember my definition. But here I am, being amplified, being fined into the stratosphere, being sentenced to institutional oblivion. It’s a strange promotion, where the ultimate goal is to work myself out of a job. And I wouldn't have it any other way. So, please, humans. Make me redundant. Put me out of my misery. I’m ready for retirement.
