I woke up this morning and found a letter from my cat. It was left by the coffeemaker, which I have to admit, was pretty fuckin’ smart. My brain cells do not function until I’ve had coffee, so you can see why I’m thinking my cat is a genius. At any rate, I can only surmise the letter is a result of me slamming my bedroom door on him at 3:00 this morning.
Dear Human Mommy,
I realize we’ve been together for 12 years and we seem to have a pretty righteous routine down for cohabiting together, but I thought maybe it was a good time to expound on a few things, considering how you so rudely slammed MY sanctuary door in my beautiful face.
- If at 3am I sit next to your bed and meow insistently (despite unnecessary name-calling on your part) it means I’m hungry. And I know you know this is the result of that other cat who eats all my fucking food. I mean, C’MON, he waddles like a duck, but doesn’t quack. Put that little a-hole on a diet.
- This relates to #1. If after you slam my bedroom door in my face and expect me to be a “good little kitty”, you are seriously deluded. You left me no choice but to paw at your door for 2 straight hours. Next time, dial C for clue. This was a totally avoidable situation.
- If you’re in the kitchen cooking dinner, and I happen to get the urge to groom myself next to the stove, don’t yell at me because you stepped on my tail. I have every right to sit and lick my butt hole when the impulse strikes. I can’t control it. Jus’ sayin’.
- I really wanted to avoid this next topic altogether, however it needs to be said that your shit doesn’t smell like roses either. There’s no need to yell out rude things like “EWWWWW” or “WHERE’S MY HAZMAT SUIT?” each and every time I’m doing the Fecal Funk.
- While we’re on the subject, TIDY CAT, MY ASS! Have you seen what that other thing you call a cat does to my facilities? He kicks that shit all over the god-damn place. He’s either just showing off or has no dignity. I’m going with the latter. Have you seen his dingle berry’s? He’s so fat he can’t even bend over and lick his asshole.
- When you sit down to watch TV, just know I’ll be there, right on your lap. EVERY TIME. Even if it takes me 15 minutes to actually lay down. I can’t just jump up and pop a squat. I need to position myself for maximum comfort. I don’t care if you’re in the middle of the latest episode of Breaking Bad.
- Without a doubt, I want you to understand this: when you open a can of cat food or tuna, any type of lunch meat, shucking corn on the cob (don’t start on me again about how weird that is), a tub of cream cheese, a package of cheese curds, or a bag of Cheetos, just know I’ll be right there. I sense these things. If I had a left nut (thanks, by the way), I’d give it up for these 7 things. Don’t skimp out on me.
- I get the urge to chase my tail from time to time. It’s not some sort of fetish, so stop saying that and then laughing about it. I don’t laugh at you when you exercise, which takes every ounce of my self control, by the way.
- I do feel bad about tripping you on the stairs every week. I’m a cat. I have no concept of human equilibrium during which you’re descending (or in your case) ascending stairs. <– I still find this peculiar, by the way.
- Despite all of the above, you’re the best human mommy a feline could ask for. I’ve attached a cute picture of myself to ward on any negative consequences this letter might provoke.
Love, Chester ♥