Eek! True Stories: I Survived Being Roommates With A Yak
If you’ve ever had roommates, chances are there were some bad ones. They might eat your leftovers, use up all the toilet paper, or leave dishes in the sink. But I can bet you’ve never had a roommate like mine. That’s because it was a yak. So grab a cuppa yak butter tea and let me tell you how I survived being roommates with a yak.
“But wait, how did you even get yourself into a Yak-like environment?”
Well, living in the high plains of Tibet, my Craigslist options were very limited. SoI found my furry roommate (whose name won’t be revealed) in a rolling field. He was from western Tibet, born and raised. In a meadow was where he liked to graze. Until a couple of yaks who were up to no good, started makin’ trouble in his grazing ‘hood. He got into one little trample and his owner got scared, and said you’re moving out away from the breezy plateau air.
At first, everything was cool. He cleaned up after himself, washed his trough; sometimes he’d even bring me home leftover grain bowls. But eventually, things changed.
In the beginning, I wasn’t too concerned. There had been some isolated incidents of finding a yak ball in the shower drain here and there, but believe me, pulling out a hairball the size of an Egyptian Mongoose is no easy task.
“For yak’s sake, give him a break. How bad could it get?”
Well, you’re correct, it was by far the least of the worst of the it. Wait…the worst of the yet has least come. It gets worse is what I’m trying to say.
As the days went by, things got weirder. Grains would be scattered everywhere, piles of yak tufts collected in the corner, I started receiving subscriptions to Parade Magazine, Fields & Meadows Quarterly, and mysterious credits cards for R.U. Yakenstein.
As the late, great Billy Mayes always said, “ But wait… there’s more.” He gambled away our rent playing black yak and forged my signature on timeshares when he needed to “get away from the pressure.”
There were many days where I thought to myself, “It possibly can’t get worse.” And you know what? It did, but by the time I could do anything about it my sofa was already half eaten, and I had a condo in Mexico.
After enduring months of this erratic, and self-destructive behavior, I decided I’d had enough. I scraped together what dollars and oats I had left into an envelope, packed my bags, left the apartment during one of his 9-hour naps, and never looked back.
Since this blog post was written, our protagonist has moved into his 3-bedroom condo in Cabo that he rents out to four other bison to make mortgage bills. He looks back on his yak days without regret. The yak’s still at the apartment, waiting for him to come home.