Wherein The Way Is Lost

Dear Mr. Cat,

That better not be the sound of our bathroom cabinet opening up that I hear. Let’s see, your mother is at work, and I’m not in the bathroom right now - after all, I certainly don’t want to miss a second of this week’s episode of Man v. Food, now do I? I mean, is it really possible for Adam Richman to eat 15 dozen oysters in one sitting? THESE ARE IMPORTANT THINGS THAT THE TV PEOPLE TELL ME WE NEED TO KNOW, MR. CAT.

Wait, where did you go? Oh, right - the bathroom. I mean, I’m here, your mother’s at work, and the dog is asleep on the couch after an exhausting day of barking at random light switches or whatever on God’s green Earth she does while we’re gone. YES, I am well aware that she eats your poops and that it’s incredibly disgusting, but we’re not talking about her problems. Yet. We’re focusing more on your problems at the moment.

Like the fact that you’re talking to me from inside the bathroom cabinet. You learned how to open the door, which I’ll admit is impressive for something that can’t figure out that you’re supposed to poop in one of the FOUR LITTER BOXES that we leave out for you. But now you’re stuck in there, in the dark, pipe-filled space that you thought would be SO interesting. And, of course, the door shut behind you so now you have no idea how to get out. Meow all you want, bricks-for-brains, but the door is not voice-activated, so good luck with that.

I mean, really – this shouldn’t be all that embarrassing, but let’s remember that I just rescued you from that very same Wicked Cave of Baa-Thrum TEN MINUTES AGO. Not to mention your constant misadventures elsewhere in the house. Remember last night’s Cat Trek to the Surprisingly Well-Lit Cavern Beneath Kich-Entay-bul? Or the Feline Quest to Discover the Hidden Secrets of Hal-WaeClauz-It? That’s really a misnomer, though, since there are no more secrets there anymore because you go in there EVERY TIME WE OPEN THE DOOR.

Yet, as often as you embark on these adventures, you never remember how to get yourself out of them. I’ll give you a hint, Mr. Cat – WALK. Really, walk in any direction and you’ll be free from the treachery of the house that we brought you into so that you wouldn’t be living on the street like some or hobo or five-years-from-now Perez Hilton. I mean, really – if this is what you do when we’re at home, what is it that you do while we’re gone?

What’s that? You leave your poops by the door so that the dog can eat them? Fantastic – not only do you have the internal compass of a kumquat, but you also have the craftiness and moral compass of a furry little Uruk-hai. There’s a winning combination.

Love always,
Mike

Wherein We're Welcomed Home

Dear Mr. Cat,

What's with all the meowing? Yes, we just back home form being gone for TWO WHOLE HOURS, but really? This is the welcoming committee you've put together? Your fuzzy self and fifty of the loudest, most obnoxious yawps that your cavernous maw can manufacture?

Oh, come on. Now you're flopping onto your back, as if you're STARVING for attention and haven't ever felt the warmth of human kindness. I'll remember that the next time we're buying your $50/bag food that you're too lazy to go out and buy yourself, much less get a job to earn the money for. Or maybe I'll think of it while I'm WRIST-DEEP IN YOUR FECAL MATTER. Because apparently I'm not showing you any care whilst I DISPOSE OF EVERYTHING THAT COMES OUT OF YOUR VARIOUS AND SUNDRY ORIFICES.

All right, this is getting ridiculous. You sound like you're having three concurrent litters of kittens. We know that's simply not the case, Mr. Cat. (A) You're fixed (yes, I know you think of it more as "broken" than "fixed", but I paid for it so I'm calling it whatever the hell I want to call it). (B) You're a boy cat. Now, I'm no lawyer, but it seems like all of the evidence points to the fact that YOU HAVE NO KITTENS COMING OUT OF YOUR BOY-UTERUS.

So, look. We're home. You've made your point. Now cram it up your cramhole, Mr. Cat.

Love always,
Mike

Wherein Shoelaces are Ingested

Dear Mr. Cat,

Why must you insist on eating my shoelaces? I mean, if you want to know the truth, I'm more curious than angry at this point. What in your sadistic little mind possesses you to try such a thing?

"Hm, I'm hungry. I wish there was something around here that tasted of old cloth, fake leather, and sweaty feet. Hey, lookie - it's Dad's shoes. YAHTZEE!!"

Really, Mr. Cat? That's the cure to your hunger pangs? Not the $50 per bag food that we buy you at El Super-Duper Pet Store and Emporium for Getting Your Leg Humped By Other Peoples' Dogs? Not the cat treats out of the jar that we shake so that you'll come to us whenever we're afraid that you've flown the coop? Not the special milk that we buy JUST FOR YOU CATS?

Nope. It's shoelaces. Delicious, tasty shoelaces. Now I get to stomp around work with duct tape around my shoes to keep them from falling off. To top it all off, I get to look forward to your returning the shoelace back to me later tonight in a nice little puddle, along with any other flotsam floating around in your Wretched Stomach of Feline Curiosity as an added bonus. You might even leave it somewhere dark so that I can step in it and get it on my bare foot, just to add to the apparently delicious concoction of foot-y goodness that makes the shoelace such a delicacy. Fantastic.

Really, Mr. Cat. Let's knock it off with the shoelaces. You jerk.

Love always,
Mike

Wherein Paper is Eaten

Dear Mr. Cat,

Why are you eating the paper out of the bags from our Christmas presents? I put them there so that my wife - you know, the one of us that likes you - would have a wonderful Christmas present that fills with her joy. Do you not want your mother to have a little joy on Christmas?

Or do you just hate Christmas? Are you secretly Jewish, or perhaps an Atheist? Or are you simply evil, just like your brother? He's been talking to you about his galavanting adventures the last time we put up the Nativity scene, hasn't he?

All right, for the last time, the Nativity is NOT for your enjoyment. It is for OUR enjoyment. There was not a single giant cat in the true Nativity, so shall there not be one in ours. The song doesn't go, "The little Lord Jesus / asleep on - OH MY DEAR GOODNESS WHY IS THERE A TWENTY-FOOT TALL CAT STROLLING THE STREETS OF BETHLEHEM AND OF ALL PLACES IN THIS LITTLE TOWN HOW COULD HE FIND THIS ONE TINY MANGER?? OH NO, HE'S AFTER THE CHILDREN! SWEET CAT-EATEN BABY JESUS, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE MR. CAT????" No, see, that's not how the song goes at all. And stop grinning hungrily at the thought.

I'm onto you, jackass Mr. Cat.

Love always,
Mike