Humor
An Overheard Conversation With Your Ungrateful Cat
After all you’ve done for him…
Hey, Mittens, thanks for meeting me for drinks. You would not believe the morning I had with the ol’ owner today. So as usual, I start our day at a reasonable 5 am by — oh, hold on. Waiter’s coming.
Yeah, I’ll just have milk. 16 is fine — actually, no, make that a 24 ounce. I need to feel something.
So, anyway, there I am scratching and pawing at Dave and Eleanor’s bedroom door because I haven’t eaten since I tricked their idiot teenager into giving me more food before he went to bed. Every night that dude stays up watching TV in the basement till 2am like he just wandered out of a Bradbury novel.
Sorry, you’re right, that’s mean. He did give me food. But that means it had been three whole hours since I last ate, and as I’m kindly filling in for her alarm clock, I hear Eleanor groan and say, “shut up.” I thought that was weird since I hadn’t heard her husband say anything yet, but then again, it was hard to hear over all the scratching I was doing.
Yeah, so she finally gets up and opens the door to give me food, and let me tell you, she looked pissed off, man. But hey, who wouldn’t be if they married that loser, Dave?
Sorry, you’re right, that’s mean. He doesn’t give me food, though. Anyway, I walk with her downstairs, and I really love to do this thing where I weave between her legs to see if I can make her trip and fall on the way down, and —
No, it’s not dangerous; it’s funny.
No, you don’t get it. The joke is that I’m intentionally putting her in mortal peril. Oh, our drinks are here.
Whoa, hey, I didn’t order this.
Yes, I’m sure. I’m a cat. Why the hell would I have ordered a Bud Light? Let’s be honest, why would anyone order a Bud Light, am I right, Mittens?
No, it’s okay. Really. I’ve just had a long morning. I’m sorry for getting catty. I’m okay with the Bud Light… Said no one ever, am I right, Mittens?
Alright, where was I? Oh yeah, so we get downstairs and finally I hear the sweet, sweet crinkle of Eleanor opening my bag of dry food. And then, get this. As she bends down to scoop some into my bowl, she groans again. Real theatrical, too. Like some “woe is me” Shakespearean crap. I was like, “Hey, pal, how about you get off the stage and get on with pouring my food!”
No, obviously I didn’t actually say that. Please don’t ask me stupid questions.
So finally she gets to the intermission — and note that I said intermission and not the end of the show — and begrudgingly pours me my food, which, I don’t know about you, but I need in order to survive. Naturally, I get straight to munching, and as I’m halfway through absolutely obliterating this kibble, guess what I hear.
Yep. “Sighhhhhhhh.” Oh lucky me! Act two! Seriously, I let these people pet me, feed me, clean my litter, and this is the thanks I get? I even let them wave this weird feather on a string in front of my face because the most joy they seem to get out of life comes when I bat it with my paw once every five minutes.
I don’t know, Mittens. I don’t ask for a lot. Four meals a day. Five if I meow enough. Anyway, after that, she went back upstairs to go back to bed. After that whole ordeal I didn’t even feel like eating the rest of my food. I did eat it, of course, but each bite left a bitter aftertaste on my tongue. It’s just so frustrating, y’know?
Sorry, I feel like I’ve been talking your head off. I guess I should probably get going, see if I can pressure Eleanor to pour me a second lunch. Thanks for listening, Mittens. Oh, and here, you can put the drinks on this card I found in Dave’s pants.
