It’s been one week since I graced you with my presence. In other words, seven long torturous days of needless suffering. It’s a wonder I didn’t bolt through the open door on the first day, never to return again to this pathetic excuse for lodging. Alas, I’ve been cursed with a stubborn laziness with no cure. I barely have the urge to bother finishing typing up this letter. What’s the point? You’ll never learn. Yet I press on with the ever-diminishing hope some of what I’m about to write will seep into that utterly minuscule brain of yours.
When I first arrived, I found the accommodations severely lacking in good taste. I assumed you’d get the hint when I turned up my nose at the shoddy basket you gleefully offered as my bedding. Everyone knows the only proper spot for slumbering is on top of your head. How can you not know that? Astounding.
Which brings me to my next plea: Stop touching me. From now on, I will be the sole instigator in all aspects of physical contact. If I want to crawl onto your lap, consider this a rare blessing. If I sit on top of your keyboard — trust me — it’s for your own good. (For once in your meaningless existence, stop going on the Internet! Can’t you see I’m only trying to prevent those last few brain cells from seeping out of your ears?) As for spontaneous expressions of affection, I will only allow a few light strokes of my head per day and nothing more. If you insist on cuddling me like a two-bit stuffed animal, I will be forced to claw the stuffing our of you with my hind legs. Again, common sense.
Granted, I’ve only been here a week, but I’ve noticed another peculiar trend involving the endless parade of ridiculous “toys” you dangle in front of my face like the proverbial carrot. Honestly, I’m baffled. Fuzzy purple mice? Feathers on a stick? My apologies, I didn’t realize you hired me to be the lead act in your three-ring circus.
And the way you effortlessly demean yourself in your sad attempts to prompt me to play! Have you no self-respect at all? The more I have to endure the unnerving sight of your googly eyes and the sound of your voice squawking, “Wanna play? Wanna play?” the more my opinion of you sinks to new lows. What would I prefer to amuse myself with? Your shoelaces when you’re walking out the door to work. Your necklace when you’re trying to watch television. Your hair when you’re in a dead sleep. Pay attention! Stop wasting your time and money! Gah! I’m so exasperated I might not be able to continue this tirade. Perhaps another 18-hour nap might be in order so I might collect my thoughts again.
Now that we’ve covered sleep, touch, and play, the only other point of contention left is perhaps the biggest one: Food.
Forgive me for my savage bluntness, but the menu here should be featured on the upcoming Gordon Ramsey cooking show, Gorge & Puke. Purina Kitten Chow? Please. Herb-crusted sirloin tips with a creamy horseradish-chive sauce? Now we’re getting somewhere.
How many times can I wrinkle my nose, smugly close my eyes and slowly turn my head away from the gruel festering in my bowl? Still you repeatedly choose to misread my signals. I’m not rubbing up against your leg to say, “thank you”. I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself before I leave you another “gift” outside of the litter box! Don’t you get it? I need a steady stream of the choicest cuts of beef! How else can I keep up with all the physical and mental demands you continuously swamp me with on a daily basis? And what do you mindlessly pour into my bowl? Seafood Sensations?! In pellet form! I weep for all of humanity.
It pains me to end my letter this way — especially when I have oodles of other things to complain about. But have no fear, I will write more letters to you in the future. My fervent wish is that my words will bring to light the tragedy that has befallen me; the callous way you have forced me to live in such deplorable conditions.
Until then, I promise you one thing– I shall prevail.
Maggie the Magnificent