I know that you do not know your own names; in fact, you may know yourselves better as “Holy Shit” and “You Little Bastard,” respectively. Chloe & Toby are the names I gave you upon adoption, however – the ones you cheerfully ignore on a daily basis.
There are a few matters that I would like to discuss with you, without the use of the spray bottle. Apparently, tapwater has corrosive properties when applied to cats, which may make it an effective tool for expressing anger, but not productive for a civil conversation.
The following are a few points you might keep in mind in order to foster a more nurturing relationship between us:
1. The bowls in the corner next to the scratching post are yours, and contain your food and water. The rest of the dishes in the house are mine, and contain my food. I do not sneak up when you are otherwise occupied and nibble out of your dishes; I would appreciate the same treatment in return. Granted, I do not particularly like processed liver and salmon bits, but the veterinarian has assured me that this is the preferred diet for your breed, and that Kraft macaroni, while appetizing, will do you little good in the nutrition area.*
Placing a paw upon the edge of my dish does not make the food contained therein yours. Please do not bat at me when I try to recover my own dish. If you pick a fight, it will end badly for you, as I am much bigger and have opposable thumbs. Still, I’d prefer to keep my eyes, so let’s try to avoid confrontation.
While we’re on the topic of food, I’d like to point out that being able to see the bottom of the bowl does not necessarily mean the bowl is empty. There is no need to yell at me the instant a half-dollar-sized spot is cleared away; there is still more than enough for you to eat.
2. The door to my office is solid wood, 1.5″ thick. If, by some miracle, I manage to beat you through the doorway and shut you out, you will not be able to claw your way through the door before I am finished working; this is simple physics. You will, however, deprive me of my security deposit, which means you will be eating factory-outlet Cat Chow should I ever need to relocate.
Incidentally, my homicidal mood as I exit the office is a neurosis directly attributed to the noise of your claws on my door. If you do not wish to be drop-kicked down the stairs, I would suggest you desist.
3. I’ve been bathing myself for years; your attendance is not necessary. Yes, the water splashes on you when you smack it. Yes, it will splash you again when you timidly try it ten minutes later.
4. I’m sorry about the incident with the laser pointer. I did not know that you would charge full-tilt at the little red dot on the wall; nor did I know that you would be unable to halt your progress on the linoleum.
5. I cannot give milk, so stop treading for it. I realize that some kneading is a natural sign of affection in cats, but you’ve crossed into the realm of obsession with this behavior. Also, try to learn a bit about human physiology; when you knead certain places, it makes me very uncomfortable.
6. I’ve seen you sleep perfectly well, curled up in a ball. I wonder, then, why it is necessary for you to stretch out to your fullest extent across my bed.
7. The couch was $400. You were $50. Do the math.
8. I know you can do the math, because I’ve seen you count. You allow me to walk exactly 5 steps in any direction before you attempt to dart between my legs. This may be a really neat game for you, but the kitchen floor is hard, and I don’t always land on my feet.
9. The litterbox is under the bathroom sink; the big mound on the floor is my jacket. Please do not confuse the two.
Thank you for taking time away from eviscerating each other to address these issues. I trust that you will continue to let me know the instant you need something.
Love,
Jeremy
*Me neither.
Jeremy Pippin is a writer and web consultant living in the New York metropolitan area.
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