I’ve been keeping this all in for a while now, trying to be nice and not start a full-on war with the only other living member of my species, but Jesus fucking Christ, Peter. I can’t do it anymore. You’re making us look bad, and I can no longer sit idly by and let you smear our good name as Thomson’s Gazelles. You’re embarrassing us, Peter. You’re embarrassing yourself.

What will the rest of the world’s wildlife think of our species once we’re off this wooden deathtrap and socializing with us is no longer a spacially-enforced mandate, Peter? Will they think of me, Pam, grazing quietly on stale hay and generally acting like a civilized member of the bovid family? Or will they think of a fifty pound asshole with horns and racing stripes who casually and consistently tries to nab bites of feed from the others animals’ troughs when he walks by heading for his morning jog around the top deck? (Everyone knows it’s you, Peter. You’re not even sneaky about it.) Will they think of me, chewing my food quietly and waiting to shit until just before Japheth comes to muck the stalls each morning so I don’t aerate this entire hellish vessel with my excrement, or will they think of the little hooved prick who apparently knows neither the time nor the place for the Flehman Response and seems to be possessed of the irrational belief the entire goddamn animal kingdom thinks his dung smells like roses?

You probably think I’m singling you out here, Peter, that I’m picking on you unjustly. Just to be fair, I’ll word the following more generally. Could whichever male Thomson’s Gazelle on this prison ship that for real has only two members of each species has been getting up early and licking up literally all of the salt Shem puts in the trough every morning while I try to get a few blessed hours of respite from you within the woolen arms of sleep kindly stop being such a selfish jackass? It’s not cute, and when I find out which one of you male Thomson’s gazelles on this buoyant memorial to the gender binary has been licking up all of that blessed salt and leaving me nothing every christ-forsaken morning, I am going to cram one of these horns so far up that particular male Thomson’s Gazelle’s behind he will be getting his urine sniffed by every male ungulate on the African subcontinent for the rest of his pain-riddled life.

You know, sniffing a female gazelle’s urine to see if she’s in estrus made a lot more sense on the savannah when there were literally a million of us and you might legitimately not know. But how many of us are there now, Peter? Is there just one now, Peter? Do you think maybe you could just ask me if I’d like to mate, instead of following me around this fucking ten foot animal pen while I try to find a quiet corner to take a piss? Do you think you could just goddamn ask me, Peter? Do you think you could say, “Hey, Pam, it’s Peter, I share this fucking ten foot animal pen with you, and I was just curious if you were maybe in estrus.” Could you manage that next time?

The cheetahs. Watch the fucking cheetahs on this floating outhouse one of these afternoons, Peter. Do you see Henry sniffing Clara’s piss while she tries to do her business in the laughable approximation of privacy the Almighty has afforded us on this hot box? Do you see him cramming his regal nose up her unsuspecting hoo-hah while she’s trying to relieve her bladder? You don’t see Henry do that to Clara, do you, Peter? Do you suppose that’s why God saw fit to put Henry in the position of chasing your sorry ass all over creation, Peter?

I know you overheard me back on the savannah saying I wouldn’t mate with you unless you were the last living Thomson’s Gazelle on the planet, but that was just a figure of speech, Peter. That was not on any level meant to be construed as a hypothetical invitation. I am fully willing to let our proud and noble species die out if you don’t stop being such an asshole.

And please, for the love of the unborn Christ, will you stop jumping twelve feet straight in the air for no reason just to demonstrate you can do it? You can touch the ceiling. We fucking get it. Grow up.

–Pam