existential pets

The Real Killer - Vegas Andrews (ft others)

@mrs-jughead-jones this short fic goes out to the theory makers on Rose’s tumblr right now, I’m having the time of my life and decided to make a small fic, inspired by this debate.

Words: 1,317

Warnings: Doge / Violent Doge / Swearing Doge


Archie and Drughead were caught up in their own problems, I don’t know what they were because I am a dog, but I didn’t really care because it meant I got petted therapeutically. That seemed to be my job. When someone was contemplating or having an existential crisis, they would pet me. Drughead preferred to flap my ear around which is…. nice?

They were so fixated on their own issues that they didn’t even realise the killer was right in front of them. To a smelly hooman, it would look like I was simply sitting at Drughead’s side, staring into space and just generally being a dog. But IT’S ALL LIEEEESSS!!!

Inside my mind, I was conspiring and plotting my next move. I had gone off the rails and there was no going back….

It all started back when….

“Woof woof” I barked as I watched Drughead’s mother load her car, daughter’s hand in her own. She had finally had enough with FP and they were moving far away. I wasn’t particularly fussed, because i am a dog, until I noticed the metal cage at the back of the van.

I bounded towards it, barking aggressively. I heard a restrained response from behind the prison bars of the cage. It was my dog bae, my man crush monday, Hot Dog! They couldn’t take Hot Dog. 

I felt my fur coat burn with teenage dog angst, and I ran over to Drughead, clawing at his suspenders, a plead for him to do something. He was too invested in saying goodbye to his sister.


I had to sit and watch as my dog bae was taken away from me. The only other intellectual in this town. I felt sad and angry and emotions that were indescribable. I mean how could I describe them? I’m a fucking dog.

I swore vengeance on my friend/bae/one-time hookup that day. I would get Hot Dog back, whatever it took.

After stalking the Jones household for a few months, i found out that Drughead had left the house to live in the drive-in. This is a dumb idea because the drive-in has no fridge that i am aware of, and that means it’s harder to access food. Food accessibility is another priority in my books. This just adds to the novel i’m writing about the fact that hoomans have no intuition.

Speaking of DRUGhead, turns out that the Dad was high like 98% of the time. This I guess, is why half of his family left. I’ve always wanted to 420 blaze it, but i never have, because i’m a dog.

I followed him on daily basis, trailer park to drive-in, trailer park to drive-in. He had a black jacket with a green worm on the back, along with the rest of his “friends”. I assumed these were his druggy buddies. Drughead was pretty clueless, considering he lived there.

I watched overtime, as the connections with the drugs grew. Reaching out to buyers like Hiram Lodge, a wealthy businessman. FP was getting a lot of money/benefits from these deals, but being a dumbass human, wasted his rewards on alcohol. You see, I may never have been high, but boy have I been drunk.

Perhaps, I could use my intelligence to manipulate stoopid hoomans. I could work my way to the top and maybe offer the Jones’s a huge cash sum to get my friend back! It was a genius plan!

I trained my nose to sniff out Green Worm drug stashes. I became known as “The Hound”, a mysterious thief who kept stealing the stock of the Green Worms. This was quite funny, because I am actually a dog. Hahahhhahahahhah.

The drugs I managed to anonymously deal were stamped with the Green Worm mark, so I couldn’t be blamed for my crimes. At the end of the day, if anything went wrong, FP would be blamed for my misdeeds, not me.

It all went downhill when I got involved with a certain ginger. 

Jason Blossom.

He was looking for some serious last-minute money, so he could escape the town with his preggo my leggo girlfriend. The Blossom’s were the most influential family and town, and they were very very rich, which meant I could exploit Jason for a long amount of time before finally letting him go.

I offered him a job to do for me, entrusting him with the drugs through anonymous mail. Don’t ask me about the mailing process, it’s too complex for hoomans to understand. I put my faith in him. I was desperate at this point, Hot Dog was so close yet so far and I had to push myself and my doggy drug business to the extreme.

He was supposed to take the drugs, sell them to the students at Riverdale High, and give me back his earnings. I had sent him letters, written with my own paws, about how when his job was truly done he would be paid what he deserved. I meant it, but he just couldn’t trust in me for that long. He was  getting desperate too. WELL IT’S A DOG EAT HOOMAN WORLD SONNY JIM.

He thought I wouldn’t notice when he started to take half of the days profits for himself. I was enraged. I also had fleas at this time which is practically the equivalent of a doggy period so I was incredibly pissed off.

Jason knew I was on to him, when i sent him hate mail and insulted his Sailor Moon ships. He was going to pack a getaway car and be out of there by morning. Oh helllllllll no, not today. 

Jason had messed with the wrong canine. I thought about Fred and Archie, the affection they showed me. Then my mind went deeper, to the thoughts of the Blossom’s and how they tried to control Fred’s life and work. I got angrier by the second and I knew that was when I had to take action.

I waited, on the 4th of July, by the riverbank for Jason to arrive. He arrived with his sister looking like twins that deserved a place in The Shining. They rowed over to where I was, and Cheryl left him to die. Fake die. OR SO SHE THOUGHT! Jason was filled with paranoia though, his guard was up and I couldn’t strike without getting hurt in the process. So, I used my doggy hulk strength, and pushed a tree down on him. He somehow got out alive, so I patiently awaited a week for him to wake up. This seemed to work though, because I could get his preggo my leggo girlfriend to pay ransom, or the same from the Blossom’s. Nobody showed up though. I slowly started getting bored, and when dogs get bored they get mad.

Playing fetch by myself was becoming tiresome.

Jason for some stupid reason wasn’t awake, but when he did wake up, he might get away. I couldn’t risk that, he would tell everyone about my scheming and I would be stuck in the pound for the rest of my life with big man Dave. Not Dave. Anyone but Dave.

So I do what most dogs do when their mad.

Charge into the intended victim with a P99 before popping a cap in their head. Followed by nudging into the rivers currents so he would float away like he was in the river of lost souls from my favourite disney movie, Hercules.

I used my handy paws to big a deep hole to China, where I hid the murder weapon. To avoid suspicion, I would have to put my drug hauling on hold and return to my normal life at the Andrew’s house.

I’m still yet to get my bae back, BUT I WILL.




woof woof motherfuckers.


@mrsjugheadjonesthethird @jvghead-jones-iii


*well, what is your guess?
*well, 너의 추측은 뭔데?

*what do you think. 
*뭘거라고 생각하는데.

*Inquire further
*Change subject

*He doesn’t seem happy.

(this response picture is for this previous poll)

///thanks @nyublackneko for the korean translation


I forgot to put this on tumblr yesterday. Happy late Halloween.

anonymous asked:

Hey... My Guinea pig just died today and I'm honestly devasted... He meant so much to me... Any words or advice on how to deal with losing a pet or something to please cheer me up? It'd mean the world to me...

 My dog died last autumn, so I can really empathize with this ask.

The thing about death is… it hurts those left behind more than the dead. And the thing about animals is, they live very simple, very innocent lives. Animals don’t fret about mortality - at least, I’m certain guinea pigs don’t, the jury’s still out on things like blue whales and elephants. Animals don’t have existential angst. All your pet knew is, that for a long time, under your care, they were happy. They were so happy. Because animals know love and how to be happy, and that’s one of the things I find so calming about them. It seems like this world is lacking in pure, gentle happiness sometimes.

It’s sad to lose a pet. They were an important part of your life, an important source of comfort, and there’s an irreplaceable hole left behind. But take comfort in the knowledge that you cared for a creature. You gave it a world to exist in, a world to play in, and a world to be happy. We, as humans, wonder about our purpose in the world. As humans, we all find different purposes. But I’ve always thought that, as a species, our purpose should be to create and share happiness.

Through your pet, you did just that. 

Don’t be ashamed of grieving. You need time to grieve after a loss. Don’t feel guilty about it either, and don’t feel like you need to rush the process. At the end of the day though, don’t forget what you’ve done for them. Don’t forget what you’ve shared, and remember that they lived a good life. Everything has to die someday, but what’s most important is the happy life that proceeds that.

There’s value in the life of even the smallest of creatures, and for a time, you got to be a part of each other’s lives. Find joy in that, and when you’re ready, maybe you’ll care for another animal and bring it happiness and love. But you don’t have to be ready right now. Go have a good cry. Eat something that’ll make you feel better. Talk to your friends, watch videos, read some good fanfics, do whatever you like to do.

 Eventually, the sorrow will fade, and you’ll be able to remember everything good about your pet, rather than thinking about how much you miss them.

Motivation to do homework

Do your homework because knowledge is power. With great power comes great responsibility. Responsibility leads to remembering to lock your door at night. When you lock your door at night, the miniature werewolf that’s been living in your sock drawer can’t escape. Now you have a mini pet werewolf. Do your homework.

chellycherry reblogged your post and added:

I’m still very intrigued by the fact that you kept a lobster once… did you save it from the pot? That’s great that she didn’t get that big and you were able to keep her at least for a little while.

OKAY, I guess I should explain more, because at this point, the Lobster Story has become the stuff of legend in my household.  

To set the scene, me and my family were homeschooled up until high school, and Mom was really into trying to advance our knowledge/love of learning, so she got tons of little science-y type kits! We built volcanoes, we had little chemistry sets, you name it, we tried it. The Lobster Story took place before I was in high school, so sometime in the mid-90s, early 2000s. 

One day, Mom shows up with this ‘Australian Blue Lobster’ kit. It was a similar idea to sea monkeys; you buy the set, which has an aquarium with 12 little cubes for the lobsters to live in, you mail away and receive live, tiny lobsters! The booklet explained that these lobsters were endangered (or threatened?), and that most of them died before they got to be one inch long. So the idea was, you raised them until they were a couple inches long and they could survive a little better in the ocean, you mailed them back to the company, and they released them into the ocean to help repopulate the lobster colonies! Neat idea, right? 

So, all excited, we wait for the lobsters to arrive, we carefully assemble their little aquarium habitat (each cube is only an inch or two across, they are tiny lobsters at this point), and we read the booklet over and over about how to care for them. They have to be kept separate, or else they fight, and all you gotta do is feed them! Easy, right? We set them all up in their little cubes, pick out cute names for them, and go to bed. 

The next morning, half of the lobsters are missing. 

What the hell! We did everything right! How could they escape? As we start searching for the missing lobsters, we begin finding them in places that make no logical sense for lobsters to be - under the sofa, halfway to the front door, behind furniture. They are surprisingly fast. As soon as we bring them back, they start escaping again, and we have to watch our feet wherever we step, terrified to step on a stray lobster wandering on the floor! This continues for most of the day while we read and re-read the booklet that came with them, that was supposed to explain why our tiny Houdini army is currently escaping. 

Turns out, lobsters are pretty good climbers, and the booklet mentioned nothing about putting a lid on the tiny cubes they live in. 

After applying some saran wrap to the top of the cubes, the lobsters stop escaping - but we never find the final missing lobster. To this day, decades later, we have never found a tiny, decaying lobster carcass, so I’ve gotta assume he’s living in the walls and about three feet long by now. 

Lobster count: 11 

The lobster lives become pretty calm after that, and for several weeks/months, life is good. They eat their little lobster pellets, and they grow bigger and bigger, with handsome blue shells. My mom is probably worrying, at this point, how she is going to explain to the company that we sent back fewer lobsters than we received, but us kids aren’t worried about that. It’s just one lobster, right? Everyone loses one or two, no big deal! 

Then, the lobsters start dying. 

To little kids, any animal death is a painful one, even if it’s a tiny blue lobster who hasn’t endeared itself to you by trying to escape all of the time. But by now they’ve become familiar members of the household, and as each lobster slowly succumbs to whatever unknown ailment is attacking them, floating up at the top of the cage in a curled-up ball, a tiny funeral is held. Each lobster is lovingly wrapped in a soft cloth and buried in our back yard, and bid sadly farewell to. One by one, each lobster falls prey to a mysterious illness, and curls up and floats to the top, as dead as a lobster can be. 

Finally, only one lobster is left; my lobster, named either Midnight or Magic, since I lost track of who was who during the Great Lobster Escape of last month. She (he?) manages to hold on for days after the others have all succumbed, and she is a lonely sight, the only occupied cube in a 12-cube complex of abandoned lobster apartments. 

Lobster count: 1 

A week later, death comes to the last apartment at the Lobster Arms, and the timing couldn’t have been worse; the entire family is stepping out of the door for a weekend vacation, when we sight Midnight or Magic curled up and floating at the top of the cage. 

“Just leave him there,” my mom calls, long since exhausted by the lobster debacle, “we’ll bury him when we get home.” 

Sadly, I bid adieu to Midnight/Magic, sad that at last, our lobster adventure has come to an end.

Lobster count: 0 

We return, a few days later, anticipating a disgusting, rotting bit of dead lobster to clean up. There, at the top of the cube, is the floating, fuzzy-looking body we were waiting to find - 

and sitting beneath it, Midnight/Magic, in her brand new shell. 

A sense of wonder and relief washes over the family; Midnight/Magic isn’t dead at all! She molted her shell, something the booklet again never warned us about! She’s alive and well! 

But … What about all of the lobsters we buried? 



Now, with one remaining living lobster, one missing lobster, and 10 buried-alive lobsters now definitely dead in our backyard, what do we do? We can’t very well send one lobster back to the company, they’re gonna ask what happened to the others, and we’re gonna have to tell them that we murdered an endangered species!!! 

So in the end we simply kept Midnight Magic (now adopting both names, because why not, she’s the Highlander Lobster), and never contact the company ever again. We graduated her to an actual aquarium after she got too big for her original cube, and she lived for many years afterward, growing bigger and bluer every year. She probably got about five inches long, in total, which was pretty big to us! We got her a couple of guppies for roommates, and so she’d have something fun to chase in her tank. 

I’ll tell you something, though: we didn’t bury her for weeks after she finally died, just to be sure.