How Much Should Skeiths Eat? - A Warning of Appetite
Recently, I noticed a Neopets owner from Tyrannia protesting most vehemently about how his Skeith's extravagance is ruining him. Its appetite, he said, was gigantic, and on most days it ate as much as 3000 NP worth of food. A few days later, a Meridellian, brought before King Skarl on a charge of nonsupport, admitted that he allotted only 800 NP a day for feeding his Skeith, and that he regarded such an amount to be more than sufficient for its provisioning. During the same week, a Lost Desert man went so far as to send his Skeith to the Pound on the grounds that it would devour not one, but four Very Stinky Cheeses daily, and so made his Neohome unbearable, his bank account nonexistent, and his dream of buying a Darigan Paint Brush a mere hallucination.
The rest of the world looks on these men and their acts with an attitude of bemusement and contempt, but in actuality these men can be granted a bit of sympathy. Yes, it is easy enough to laugh at them or to mock them, but who can say that they are wrong? Have they broken any law or ruling of any nation, state, or town, or opposed any principle of legislation? Honesty forces the admission that they have not. Neopian statutes are silent on the subject, and any courts there might be, with negligence typical of such bureaucratic office, have never judicially decided in any way, shape, or form, the amount of food necessary for the rampaging hunger of a Skeith. Without any guidelines, every owner must solve the problem for himself or herself, and if for some reason his answer is in some way obnoxious to humanitarians, he is entitled, nonetheless, to the respect and admiration due every owner who embarks on a hazardous and difficult enterprise.
Every competent Petpet breeder knows to the fraction of an ounce how much food his various and assorted animals need throughout the day. He knows that a Babith of such-and-such pounds needs such so-and-so much chow; that a Cobrall of such-and-such length from fang to tail needs so-and-so many Tigermice, Spyders, and other Cobralls. And in the Battledome, the same thing applies: the dietary requirement of any successful contender is worked out to three places of decimals. An Ogrin carrying 80 pounds of Battledome equipment, with the temperature of the arena understood to be 65 degrees, can run 16 ½ miles in 12 3/5 hours on three Ham and Cheese Omelettes, a Tureen of Stuffed Olives and a Mystery Island Tiki Grass Wrap. A Grarrl weighing 285 pounds can chase a Lupe up four hills, each 345 feet in height, on 6 Continuous Meats and 12 Galaxy Energy Drinks. Experiments are made to find out these things, and the results are recorded and shared throughout the world, and so gain the agreement of most everyone involved. But within his own home, the domestic owner of a starving Skeith must figure it out for himself.
We have no doubt that much of the resentment and confusion which results is due to an ignorant and simple misunderstanding of misleading indications. When a Skeith matures to be a legal adoptable age, and aspires to be brought into a household all its own, it takes on an aspect of impalpable spirituality, schooled by its elders and nest mates in the theory that owners are attracted by evidences of weakness and fragility, and by appearances of not being too much of a hassle to take care of. Thus, when a prospective owner comes around, the Skeith pretends to a hatred of all the more powerful provisions. Let a forthcoming study examine the eating habits of a hopeful Skeith, and it will do nothing but devour grasses and other light greeneries, usually delivered by an anxious-looking Moehog. Its favorite victual, based on appearances, is Bite Size Celery; the very thought of anything heavier than a Lettuce and Tomato Baguette seems to disgust it.
So, sensing that the Neopet will be quite docile and easy to maintain, the poor owner adopts the Skeith, and for the first few days, the Skeith continues the deception. Its meals are made up of Toast, Fudge, and Mayonnaise Artichokes. It requests half, quarter, eighth and sixteenth portions, loudly protesting anything larger than that. But by the time that the owner has moved into and decorated a nice little Neohome, the demands of the devilish hunger begin to grow irresistibly, and one morning, the unfortunate owner is astounded and appalled to see his dear Growly wade into five Meat Feast Pizza Blocks, a whole bowl of Bacon and Cheese Hot Dogs, and half a dozen Peophin Berry Breads. That night, at dinner, it eats six Mayonnaise Chilli and Cheese Covered Corn on the Cobs, a quart of Beans with Sausages, a Joint of Ham, a plate of Deluxe Jacket Potatoes and two thirds of a Baked Fish. The next day, getting its true gait, it makes away with a Ransaurus Steak that would feed no less than twelve of any combination of Scorchios, Eyries, and Korbats.
Is it any wonder, in the face of such madness, that the ill-fated owner loses his reason and runs amuck? Is it any wonder that the sharp anguish of disillusionment and being deceived carries him to fantastic extremes? Is it any wonder that an owner thus deceived into believing, by deliberate underhandedness, that the Neopet he is about to adopt eats only Peach Ice Cream and Radish Sprouts, and led, by these deceits, to calculate the chances of his financial account ever growing to be more than 100,000 NP – is it any wonder that this man, when his Neopet begins to consume 40,000 NP worth of food a day, should grow discontented, peevish, and cruel?
Please, before you adopt a Skeith, consider these warnings I have conveyed to you. Look at more than just the image that that is presented to you when you preview a Skeith. Remember that wealthier and nobler men have been driven to bankruptcy, all because of the endless nature of a Skeith’s stomach.
Search the Neopian Times
|Competing With Edna|
So, you want to be a witch, eh? You wouldn't mind donning that pointy hat and tossing around a few magical words to turn Neopians into Mortogs?
|The Wish: Part Four|
I stopped at Kiko Lake. My wings were tired, and I couldn't fly another inch. The baby Zafara was sleeping in my arms...