An Open Letter to My Cat....

Hello, Cat.

First, don't even TRY to claim that you can't read this letter, because I know better.

I know that you aren't really a creature of the feline persuasion, but instead, a cleverly disguised space alien sent here by a culture more intelligent that ours with the express purpose of making my life difficult.

Sure, you were cute at first, an average sized, reasonably attractive, somewhat eccentric little puffpall.

I found it charming, back in those golden days, when you would climb up on the computer desk and keep me company. I served Your Majesty diligently and without complaint, serving up the choicest Kibble and cleaning the disgusting litter box without complaint, (even when you would misjudge your stance and shit on the floor instead of the box.) I was just that smitten.

But I just want you to know that things have changed. My feelings for you have, shall we say, soured considerably.

I guess it all started on that fateful morning in January, when I tiptoed into my daughter's room in the dark early morning to wake her. Little did I know that you had kindly deposited a fetid puddle of liquid cat vomit smack-dab in the middle of her hard wood floor, causing me to skid, (barefoot, mind you) across the floor and almost do a header into the television set.  There's nothing quite like the feeling of cold liquid cat effluent between your toes when you haven't even had your first cup of coffee yet. My mood did not improve when I quickly discovered that this puddle was merely the soupy finale to two other piles, in various degrees of chunkiness, scattered throughout my dining room.

Listen, that wasn't the last time we've had this discussion. If you really need to toss your kibble, at least have the decency to do it somewhere more convenient for clean-up, and not places like under the bed and in the middle of the dining room table. But that's not the worst of it.

Maybe you didn't get the memo, but cats are supposed to be delicate creatures. They nibble daintily at their meal, unlike you, who seems to want to bury your whole head in the food bowl like a pig at the trough. The area around your food dishes look like Nagasaki 24-7. Maybe, just maybe, if you didn't try to inhale your meals like you're at the Indianapolis 500 you wouldn't barf so much. Or, while we're on the subject. GROW SO BIG.

Yes, yes, I hear you. I know you're a Maine Coon and you're supposed to be big. And I also get that my darling husband wanted you specifically because of your potential monstrous proportions. but Dear God! I never would have pictured the chaos and destruction that was going to result from having a twelve-pound KITTEN careening around the house!

I forgave you when you broke my glass candleholder. What was I thinking, to leave something so delicate ON TOP OF THE TABLE? And I confess at first that I thought you intelligent when you figured out how to turn the lights on and off in my bedroom. But I started to get irritated when you were caught on the kitchen counter licking the peanut butter off my sandwich. And it's starting to drive me slightly off my rocker that I straighten my kitchen mats a minimum of seventeen times a day, only to find them just like this five minutes later:

Please, please, can you just leave the mats alone for a day or two? It's only a matter of time before I trip on them in the dark and go flying face-first into the countertop.

Look, I understand you're trying, and I confess that I'm not perfect either, but at least I have the decency to leave your food alone. That's why I wasn't impressed when I caught you yesterday pulling my toast out of the toaster with your teeth before I had a chance to get to it. I understand that you like to lay by the toaster, and I've learned to tolerate cat hair in the jam, but stealing my breakfast is over the line, buddy.

That's why I've come to the conclusion that in order for us to be housemates, we need to put some rules in place. I pay the mortgage here, you little shithead, not you, so you either follow these rules or you can hit the road, Jack!

One, keep your ass out of my bowl of snacks. I know you wanted to eat a ladybug lurking around the lightbulb, but I just can't tolerate Doritos once they've been near your hindquarters.

Two, stay out of places that you don't belong. This would include my wine rack (see below) my bathtub while I'm in it, my kitchen island while cookies are cooling on it, the table while we're eating on it (actually, all the time would be better) and the woodbox. (I'm tired of brushing sawdust out of your fur.)

And third, how about not destroying anything else that doesn't belong to you? This would include (but is not limited to) chewing the strings off my bamboo blinds, tearing my paper towels into a million peices, shoving my blender off the counter onto the floor, using my luggage as a scratching post, and choosing to nap on top of all my dark-colored sweaters. (Yes, I know that fur doesn't technically ruin the sweaters, but it sure is a bitch to de-lint them!)

If you can make the concious decision to follow all the above rules, I guess you can stay. After all, you're kinda cute, and the fact that you're going to be the size of a small pony is going to be interesting. But the next time you decide that having a boiling case of diarrhea requires you to roll in it after the fact, all bets are off.

Signed, The Management.