To the small, four-legged, adorable killing machines who live in my house:
No, I am not going to feed you again. You just ate not twenty minutes ago. Good god, there’s still some left over in the bowl! If you’re going to complain, you might as well have at least finished what I already gave. You think pathetic mewling and simpering eyes will make me take pity on you? Hah, your suffering means nothing to me. (I say as I mock your meows and whine back, “Poor baby.”) Unlike you, I do not have selective memory, and I distinctly remember how I spooned out some scrumptious smelling tuna and chicken mush into a bowl and watched you gobble it down, only I did so twenty minutes ago and not the two weeks ago your tone suggests.
Oh well, at least you didn’t bring me a “gift.” I’m flattered you want to teach me to hunt properly, but I do not eat mice, rats, sparrows, or garden snakes, though I admit their bloodied carcasses look absolutely divine. Please, I’d rather you spend that energy on yourself, not me. I always think rotting corpses really add a wonderful touch to the decor, but shouldn’t you put them in your favorite bush, instead of, say, my porch?
It’s nice how you’re incapable of drinking from the water in your bowl, and insist on drinking from either the toilet or the shower. Because that’s not gross in the slightest.
Whoa, whoa, whoa, maybe you could slow down on kneading my clothing? Your claws are like little razors, and though I suppose it could be the fashion, I’d rather there not be tiny pinpricks in the fabric of my shirts. And hey, while we’re at it, could you not knead my arm? I know you love me, but perhaps you could find an alternate way to express your love that doesn’t involve drawing blood.
You do come in handy, I must say. I don’t need to set an alarm; I know you’ll wake me at the charming hour of five A.M., begging for you first meal of the day. Silence will never fill my ears again—that is, until I feed you. You have such a one-track mind.
But honestly, though I make jokes at your expense and tease you for your quirks, I am so grateful for your existence. You have grown up with me, riding along the same bumps and twists in the road, and have always been a comfort and a pleasure in worse times. You’ve had your equal share of bad times too, with fleas, genetic lupus, diabetes, cat scratches, and dog bites, and I felt those as much as you did. But you are still here, as am I. Somehow, we managed to weather the storm, making it out with just a few scrapes and scars, and we continue on.
One thing looms ahead for me, and it already fills me with nostalgia and melancholy. You are aging faster than I, and I will probably outlive you. I know this, but I don't want to acknowledge it until the time comes. So for now, just keep purring, and fine, I’ll get you more food.
