An open letter to my cats by me, Sy…aged 34 and almost a half.
There are three cats. They are:
Charlie (the mother. Female…just in case someone needs confirmation on that).
Danni (the daughter. As the name suggest, female. I think the daughter bit may have also explained that too).
Yogi (the son. Also referred to by myself as “The Boy”, “Oi…Stupid” and “GET OUT THE FRIGGIN BIN DIPSHIT!”. He is a boy…give you a clue, the answers in the name).
And they are driving me mad. So in some stupid attempt to hope and pray that they read the Internet and visit this site instead of just look at cat porn, I am posting this letter.
Dear Charlie, Danni and Yogi.
I love you. There is no doubt of this, as if I didn’t, I would have enjoyed you with a side of fries by now. But as with all types of love, be it tough, gentle or the kind that ends with the court telling me I am not allowed within 30 miles of Megan Fox, the abuse of said love always comes with a price. Some examples of your abuse of my good nature:
Charlie. My first born daughter. I let you have your children on my side of the bed. I lovingly watched as you ate the placentas from the kittens on the part of the bed where my mouth generally lays. It was disgusting. It was like watching an asthmetic grown man try and eat 4 huge steaks through a straw. Impressive while being just a little obscene and wrong. Have you not heard how bad red meat is for you in such big quantities? But regardless. As you sat there licking the goo from your children on to the side of the bed I sleep on, meaning I was going to be sleeping in the juices from your womb, I knew we had something special. So please. Explain to me one thing. At 4am, when you make that calling noise to me until I wake up and then get louder and louder…well…it’s 4am. Another way of saying it would be “WHAT THE HELL!!!”. And then you decide that you must have a bath with me. Fine. I have no problem with this. BUT. There is a limit. There is a limit to our friendship. The line generally gets classed as “crossed” when you do the following:
When I get out of the bath and am drying myself, I have to bend over to dry my legs. Your affection is noted, but rubbing your head against my naked rear until you are burrowing in to the no entry area is of the uncomfortable side. Especially when you purr louder when you do it. The other day it looked like my backside had a black beard. Your malting hair attaching to my still wet arse made a face resembling an evil Santa clause. So please. Don’t. There are no toys for children in that area.
Danni. I remember when the other two kittens left. Yes, left. I did not give them away, nor did I make a financial gain from them. That new bike I bought was from money raised in other ways…which was not raised from selling the video of your mother eating a placenta or 4 on the Internet at www.dirtycatseatingwombmeat.com. They decided to leave. Get over it. But no, once they left, you would not talk to me for 2 months. You ran from me and spurned all my advances. Over time, you found a new love for me. Fine, sticking you in a really small cage and prodding you with a half a cucumber 18 times a day was maybe not the way to prove my love to you, but as you saw, it worked and we are now close.
So why. WhywhywhywhyWHY do you insist on hiding from me until I am about to walk down the stairs and then jump in front of me “purring”. Purring? I know it is fake. You are trying to kill me. You don’t do it any other time apart from when I am at the top of the stairs and would fall to my death of I trip. Oh, and that one other time. Yeah you remember. When all those knives were laying on the floor with the handles facing downwards and all those blades facing upwards. And somehow, all the lights in the area had somehow been broken. And you made loads of noise so I got up in the middle of the night and couldn’t see anything. And I could smell cucumber as I got closer. And then there you were. Pouncing on me. Interesting. If I didn’t know any better….
Yogi. Geez boy. What are you on! There is absolutely nothing going on in your head. Your vacant stare wreaks of “dropped on my head as a kitten”. Which yes, sadly it is true. Actually, you were dropped 4 times. But it is your fault. Falling off of the top of the stairs and landing almost 2 meters down would do that to anyone. But honestly, you are nuts. If you were human, I would be using you as a paperweight which has an extra bit for lubricating stamps. The title of this website is a testament to what is missing in your head. So how about changing. Just a little bit, but changing. The things I want changed? Stop stealing food from the table. The bin. The kitchen counter. The shops. Everywhere. And if you feel like a tasty snack of the small still alive bird variety, eat the damn thing outside. It’s not a toy. Bringing it in the house and then using it to mop the floor, counters and any piles of clothes I have out is frankly disgusting. So don’t.
If this behaviour by all three of you continues, I will be forced to take action. And I don’t mean one with a karate chop action.
© 2009, Sy. All rights reserved.