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Dear Queasy...
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7/19/2005
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Dear Queasy,
That picture was taken the day I was suckered into...er...voluntarily adopted you eight years ago. You had been doused with diesel fuel by some heartless stinkpot who doesn't love the lord and your fur fell out. When the vet said it might not grow back I was all excited to have a half-bald cat to show my friends. I was going to let them make fun of you and then tell them of your abusive past or maybe that you had cancer just to make them feel bad. As if to punish me for my twisted sense of humor, it grew back and now you shed between nine and twelve cubic yards of fur every six hours. Everything in my house is wearing a white sweater because of you.
You also occasionally hack up furballs the size of corndogs, and that's how it's going to be until you are gone.
The possibility of your being gone brings me to my next point. I know you can't help having lots of fur. It insulated your ancestors in the untamed Nepalese mountain wilderness as they roamed in search of moths, crickets, and Eukanuba bushes. If I brushed you more often, you probably wouldn't shed as much, nor would you make that "huk...huk...kaaaaaiieeek" sound that wakes me up in the wee hours. Yes, I would brush you more, but you are a cat and you wig out when the brushing gets intense and you try to bite me and get all hitty with your declawed front paws. Brushing pisses both of us off.
But the fur is not the issue here. The problem I am having with you of late is your bathroom habits, and it may very well terminate this relationship with a trip to the nearest Chinese restaurant, the intersection of North Avenue and North Highland (where you will be flung in front of a bus), or maybe even the garbage disposal if you EVER pee on anything I wear again.
We've been through this before, Queasy. You were unhappy with something and you showed it by urinating everywhere but your litter box. After three months and $1000 worth of carpet cleaning supplies, I figured out you didn't like the liners in your box. You may not know this as a cat, but there are lots of ways to show you aren't happy that do not involve urine. You could launch yourself at my face and chew my flesh, Meow loudly, or just frigging tell me what the problem is. Why do you have to be so damned passive aggressive? Do you have any idea how much trouble I got into when I responded to the new dress code at work by leaving a steamer on the boss's desk? A lot of trouble. That behavior is not acceptable and you can get sued. Be glad you're not human, or I'd own you.
I don't know what you are mad about. I bought you that fancy $200 self- cleaning litterbox last year so you'd never have to step on your own feces. You loved it for so long. Has it forsaken you? Now that I have concrete floors, I'm not quite as enraged by the puddles I find in the morning, but if I should ever step in one when I get out of bed you'd better hope you can run faster than I can, because I will snap your fuzzy neck with my bare hands.
That being said, I do feel I owe you an apology for what happened at three this morning. You were trying to bury a puddle next to the stove in the kitchen by pretending that everything in the room was made of sand, scratching away at the refrigerator, waking me up...you didn't even see me coming, and all of a sudden your nose was all up in your own waste.
I failed to consider the geography of your flat Himalayan face, so when I rubbed your nose in it, I guess it pretty much covered most of your head. I also forgot how you get yourself clean, so that's pretty gross and I apologize.
So let's make the following deal- You stop pissing on the floor, and I won't kill you.
Love,
Dusty
 Dusty
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posted by Dusty at 3:45 PM |
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24 Comments:
Happy Holidays.
http://www.editorandpublisher.com/eandp/news/article_display.jsp?vnu_content_id=1000981095
The not-funny part is that we don't have the moolah for special cleaning items/services for the carpet until next doomsday, so I lay into a lot of Arm-and-Hammer crap until the bonus check comes and all traces of Lord Sh*tforbrain's adventures go away.
You'll forgive her. I know you will.
Someday.
Love you...
bastards...
OMFG, I brayed like a donkey when I read that. Hairballs the size of corndogs? BWAHAHAHAHA!!! Of course I'm laughing with you, dear.
My cat shits in the neighbor's flowerbeds so I got lucky in that respect. Have you found any hairballs under your desk yet? With your bare feet? You haven't lived until you've done that.
You won't regret it
Good times.
http://www.mycathatesyou.com/cats/alpha/k/1223
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