When it comes to the grand menagerie of pets, I’d argue the husband takes the crown—both as the best and, oh, the absolute worst. A tamed husband is a marvel, a domesticated beast of burden and delight, trotting faithfully at your side. He’ll fetch the groceries, scrub the dishes, and nod to your every whim with the precision of a wind-up toy—tick-tock, a robotic ballet of devotion. His leash is woven from whispered vows and quiet compromises, and when he’s good, oh, he’s good—a warm, purring presence sprawled across the couch, loyal as a shadow stitched to your heels.
But prod that circuitry with a stick, leave him out in the rain too long, or forget to toss him a scrap of affection, and watch the gears jam. The tame unravels into wild, a snarl beneath the surface you swore was just a hiccup, a glitch. That husband-pet, once so eager to please, becomes a storm unchained—paws muddying the floors he swore to sweep, teeth bared where once he only grinned. You thought it a fluke, a flicker in the wiring, so you coo at it like it’s still your sweet little lapdog. Big mistake. For the best of pets can turn the worst when the cage door swings wide, and what you nursed as a companion reveals it was always feral, just biding its time. Devoured by your own darling? Poetic justice, raw as a bone picked clean.
BB Grey--musings 
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