Enough With Opening Your Heart and Our Home to Rescue Pets Already
Remember me? Your cat? We need to talk.
Hello, Food Bringer.
(Here’s where I tap your face a little harder with my declawed paw to wake you up. No, it’s not time for breakfast yet, unless you wanted to get up and get me a little something to nosh before breakfast. No, scratch that. I want you to focus on what I’m saying, which is why I need your full and undivided attention at 5:40 a.m. Also, “scratch that”? Yes, I am being ironic. I haven’t actually been able to scratch anything since you took me home as your “adorable little kitty witty snookums” and then decided that deforming all of my paws by having a vet remove my top knuckles would be the only way to save what I can only assume you called your “adorable little couchy wouchy.” Which, by the way, you have replaced twice in the ten years I have lived in your home. Glad my knuckles had to go to preserve such permanent fixtures in your life. But I digress. Luckily this has not been wasted time, I’ve been punching you in your overlarge nose for some time now.)
Oh, you’re up? Good.
Now, Kibble Opener. Can we talk?
I know that you are upset about this pandemic that seems to have all of you humans simultaneously reassuring each other that you’ll make it through these challenging times while simultaneously pushing first responders out of the way to take their vaccination shots.
(By the way? Not an attractive look. And I notice that whatever you’re doing, particularly here in America where we live, you’re doing particularly poorly. I mean, really, India has 10 million cases and you have 23 million cases? Do you know more than a billion people live in India? I’ll admit my grasp of math gets fuzzy after counting to three, but come on. Pull it together.)
So, good luck with that and everything. But can we talk about this new unsavory tendency you have developed to desperately try to stave off desperation, loneliness, and despair? And yes, I am talking about your new addiction to obtaining rescue pets and bringing them into our arguably already full household.
I tried to be cool when you brought home the first dog last March, because I knew that was pretty much going to be happening anyway from the time you moved us in with that taller bearded version of yourself. His soulless eyes (I’ve looked into them, meowing piteously with hunger, many a time, and his only reply was, “You’re not really MY cat, I’m sure Katie will feed you soon”) indicated to me he’d be the type of human who would need a slobbery, needy dog to fill up the giant emotional void within him.
So yeah, one dog, fine. But TWO dogs? Really? Two oversized, slobbering, huge-pawed menaces that you have seen fit to shoehorn into our 900 square foot apartment, which, by the way, is already overfull because you and your bearded mate are also now here ALL THE TIME? You do know I have to sleep at least sixteen hours every day, right? How am I supposed to fit that in when there are constantly huge, hairy, disgusting furballs sitting on the couch and in the gaming lounger and sometimes even working on the bed?
Ho, ho, of course I know the dogs don’t work. And I’m a bit concerned, if we’re all being honest here, Whiskas Buyer, that your ever-increasing household is impacting your bottom line. I notice recently that the quality of my kitty litter has been seriously declining (as has the frequency of its scooping). And yet the Bearded One came home with new toys for both dogs just last week, and has not shut up since about how it was worth the masked trip to the pet supply store, it was “exhilarating” to be out and the toys were worth the expense “because Monty and Harley are so happy to play with new things.”
In fact, I don’t know why I am calling you Whiskas Buyer because I haven’t seen any treats in months.
Also? If I ever hear you and Beardy discussing the connection you felt with both Monty and Harley immediately, OR how the time might be right to pivot to three fur babies — I know this means another dog, as neither of you have really looked in my direction in weeks — I will immediately force up a hairball puke on your bed. While you are working on it.
Do we understand each other, Supper Supplier?
Good, because I’d hate to infect you with Toxoplasma gondii. Oh wait, whoops, too late, I already did. But DON’T TEST ME. I have all day to come up with other punishments, particularly because I notice nobody is buying ME any new toys.
Glad we had this talk.
The Cat (bonus points if you can even remember my name)
With thanks to Ryan Grant Little and his piece Train Your Pandemic Puppy in 12 Steps for the inspiration!
