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.