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.