Noooogie wooogie wooogie duh-bukka nu kuku kuku…
To the Yorkie: please eat, please,please, I am begging, please. If you don’t eat I am calling the vet and they are gonna put a needle in you. Please eat, PLEEEEEASE!
To the fat Beagle: No you can’t have anymore food, No you can’t have the cats food. No you can’t have my food. Quit eating that stick it’s not food. No more treats. You’re going on a diet. Yes you have to walk all the way home. Chase the ball all dogs like chasing balls. What the hell is wrong with you? No, No more treats.
You need to go to the vet to get about a million shots. He has ordered a Great Big Needle especially for you.
when my cat howls for her nightly dish of soft food an hour in a half early …Ive opened the front door and told her to go catch her own food
I spend an inordinate amount of time explaining to my cats WHY they don’t need to go outside.
The ultimate thank-less task.
Things I tell Cupcake The Destroyer:
- I hate you. I wish you were fatter so there’d be more of you to hate.
b. This food isn’t for you. I’m going to bring the bunnies in from outside and feed it to them.
iii. I hate you with the fire of 3 burnt out birthday candles.
4th. Keep that up and you will learn to fear the furry of my wrath. - That will not look good on Your Permanent Record.
Our cats, rescued from a dumpster during the Perseid meteor shower, run when the front door is opened, lest they live outside again.
“It’s a good thing you’re cute.”
Can’t steal it if I give it to you. 
I’ll take it then.
At 10 months old, my cocker spaniel puppies is still highly excitable, which is why I often have cause to say “Chill, Moxie, chill! Chill! Moxie! You possess insufficient quantities of chill!”
And when she runs off with a shoe, I yell “Moxie! Stop being a stereotype!”
For some reason, I find myself saying “Oh my god, you’re a cat! Don’t deny it, I can tell.”
Uhm… I’m not a psychologist but I understand that’s considered standard; what wouldn’t be normal is having a vocal pet and not talking to it. I evidently don’t know anything beyond her credentials other than “she answers questions on the radio”, but this psychologist who’s got a section on one of my local morning radio shows once explained that talking to your computer is a leftover from working with ‘tools’ that could moo or bark back: so long as the computer doesn’t talk back, you’re ok.
I used to whistle to my canary, trying to get him to sing back 
I can’t shepherd-whistle to save my life but I can whistle a tune. I’d also comment on his taste in human music: Jailhouse Rock yes (chirped the hell out of and around it), Pomp and Circumstance… caaan’t quite find the answering tune, sad songs ohpleaseendthispleaseaaaaaugh (he’d go down to the floor of the cage and mope). I miss him.
I talk to my cocky, but all she says is ‘hello’. I answer “hi darling, how’re you going? You going good?” blah blah blah.
“hello”
(our “conversations” are a bit one-sided)
To go outside for the morning doodie “Go get the paper.” I then walk out to the mailbox for the paper and the dog does his business in the abandoned cattle yard along the way. It is the only time he goes out the driveway. Upon our return he’ll stand in front of an open door waiting for me to tell him “go inside.” When I run out of food and there is nothing left on my plate to mooch I need to make a show of wiping my hands together. “Git 'er/'im” will usually invoke barking at whoever is walking in the door.
To the cats about the only thing they hear from me is “get the fuck outta my way or you’re going to learn to fly.” I just hate it when they get between my feet. They exist because my daughter wants them, not my choice. Luckily for me and them they have learned who likes them.
“Come on, boys, let’s take our walk.” --not weird except that I am speaking to two male cats, Bobby Mewler and Newman, and yes, I’ve tried the harness and leash and they won’t budge. So they follow me.
“Could you please come here and take care of this?” --to Bobby Mewler, who will eat bugs any time, anywhere
“Are you okay out there? It’s hot. Don’t you want to come in?”* --to Baby, the older female cat
*Not usually, and it doesn’t bother her
Noir Kitty likes to play with his own tail as a way to get my attention, even hissing at it sometimes. I tell him what a good kitty he is for disciplining that naughty, evil tail.
He also gets my attention by playing with a couple of fishing rod type toys that are stuck in a cardboard box next to his bed. When he grabs at the toys that dangle off the rods, it makes a distinctive noise. I tell him that he needs to wait a minute or two while I finish up on the computer, then I’ll be right with him.
Noir Kitty loves to run after and pounce on the kibble I throw for him. (Shhh, he thinks they’re treats.) He gets a small handful a few times a day. When I’m done, I tell him, “That’s it, Kitty. All gone.” He immediately goes into search mode for the few that slid under something, bounced in an unexpected direction or otherwise eluded his grasp previously. He has never looked at me, expecting me to throw more. He really seems to understand there’s no more to be had. His comprehension of this, among other things, leads me to believe he’s smarter than the average cat, but I may just be biased.
We’ve got three cats, who, for various health reasons, each have their own special food. However, it’s apparent that the other cat’s food is way more tasty than the food you’re supposed to eat. So, the thing that we say to the cats most is, “That’s not your food.” We say it so often that we joke that it’s the family motto and we need to make a framed needlepoint of it. Perhaps after translating it to Latin.
‘No!’
If I go anywhere near the kitchen more than an hour after the cats were fed, they come in and start meowing like they were auditioning for Oliver Twist. I just look at them and point out that I fed them and I picked up the empty dishes so I know for a fact that they aren’t starving.
When the younger, rambunctious cat ambushes my ankles, I stop and look at him and say, “So, you’re tired of living then?”. So far that veiled threat hasn’t fazed him in the slightest.