In which I apologize for being sucky...
Dear Copernicus,
This weekend has been kind of tough on you. Not only did I rip you from your home in the Big City and stick you in the back of a minivan for an hour with a squalling baby, but when we were done in the van with the squalling baby? I stuck you in a house inhabited by three other cats and six children.
Once we got there, you were reunited with Phinnaeus, who I still love more than you, and who had absolutely no interest in hanging out with you. His brother Spike, on the other hand, couldn't have been more interested if I had rolled you around in steak juice and given you a hat made of chicken breast. I think, my little kitty, that someone has a crush on you. And if you even think about running away with the product of a teenage cat union, who's mother had a name like Chaos and whose original owner was NOT a member of the Catholic Church, you are grounded.
(I'm practicing in case I ever have children. And if you ever want to have a romantic rendezvous in this lifetime, the cat with whom you have this rendezvous MUST have a mother with an original owner who is a member of the Catholic Church. My mother had a rule where we weren't allowed to chew gum, and I'm taking that out on you. Suck it up.)
Not only were you hit on by an overgrown kitten, but there was no food. At first you didn't notice, as you were avoiding the wily advances of Spike. As the night wore on, you seemed to be exploring the house, searching out something. It never occurred to me that you might be searching out food because I just assumed that, well, there would be food about.
But no. It seems that the owners of the house we were staying at didn't think to stock up on cat food before we came over. And because the other cats in the house all have their claws intact and aren't ridiculous city-living cats who depend on neurotic owners to cater to their every whim? They manage to maintain a level of obesity that is absolutely incomprehensible on a diet of field mice and innocent birds. You can't even begin to attain a healthy body weight with an abundance of kitten chow mixed with finicky cat cat food at your disposal. I blame you, Kitty, and no one else but you.
The following day, you seemed to have settled in a little bit more, but by late afternoon, it was time for you to be crammed into your kennel once more and toted all the way back to CowTown in the back of a Saturn Vue. You yowled your discontent and I have to say: I really wish you'd shut up about it when you're unhappy.
Coperni-Kitty, usually when I write to you there is some point about how your existence has made me grow as a person, or how because you are here, my life has been altered in a manner that borders on religious.
There is no such point to this letter. I'm just writing to say that I'm sorry you got saddled with an original owner who not only is not even Catholic, but who insists upon dragging you all over the face of the Earth to be hit on by obnoxious boy cats, to be sniffed and kissed by obnoxious Chocolate Labs, and driven around in a haze of second hand smoke.
Toonses
P.S. I tried to feed you some chicken. And all I have to say is, what the Hell kind of cat doesn't scarf down a chicken breast upon being presented with one? This letter is partly about my deficiency as a cat owner, but I have to point out your deficiency as a cat here. YOU DIDN'T EVEN TASTE IT. Good Grief.
This weekend has been kind of tough on you. Not only did I rip you from your home in the Big City and stick you in the back of a minivan for an hour with a squalling baby, but when we were done in the van with the squalling baby? I stuck you in a house inhabited by three other cats and six children.
Once we got there, you were reunited with Phinnaeus, who I still love more than you, and who had absolutely no interest in hanging out with you. His brother Spike, on the other hand, couldn't have been more interested if I had rolled you around in steak juice and given you a hat made of chicken breast. I think, my little kitty, that someone has a crush on you. And if you even think about running away with the product of a teenage cat union, who's mother had a name like Chaos and whose original owner was NOT a member of the Catholic Church, you are grounded.
(I'm practicing in case I ever have children. And if you ever want to have a romantic rendezvous in this lifetime, the cat with whom you have this rendezvous MUST have a mother with an original owner who is a member of the Catholic Church. My mother had a rule where we weren't allowed to chew gum, and I'm taking that out on you. Suck it up.)
Not only were you hit on by an overgrown kitten, but there was no food. At first you didn't notice, as you were avoiding the wily advances of Spike. As the night wore on, you seemed to be exploring the house, searching out something. It never occurred to me that you might be searching out food because I just assumed that, well, there would be food about.
But no. It seems that the owners of the house we were staying at didn't think to stock up on cat food before we came over. And because the other cats in the house all have their claws intact and aren't ridiculous city-living cats who depend on neurotic owners to cater to their every whim? They manage to maintain a level of obesity that is absolutely incomprehensible on a diet of field mice and innocent birds. You can't even begin to attain a healthy body weight with an abundance of kitten chow mixed with finicky cat cat food at your disposal. I blame you, Kitty, and no one else but you.
The following day, you seemed to have settled in a little bit more, but by late afternoon, it was time for you to be crammed into your kennel once more and toted all the way back to CowTown in the back of a Saturn Vue. You yowled your discontent and I have to say: I really wish you'd shut up about it when you're unhappy.
Coperni-Kitty, usually when I write to you there is some point about how your existence has made me grow as a person, or how because you are here, my life has been altered in a manner that borders on religious.
There is no such point to this letter. I'm just writing to say that I'm sorry you got saddled with an original owner who not only is not even Catholic, but who insists upon dragging you all over the face of the Earth to be hit on by obnoxious boy cats, to be sniffed and kissed by obnoxious Chocolate Labs, and driven around in a haze of second hand smoke.
Toonses
P.S. I tried to feed you some chicken. And all I have to say is, what the Hell kind of cat doesn't scarf down a chicken breast upon being presented with one? This letter is partly about my deficiency as a cat owner, but I have to point out your deficiency as a cat here. YOU DIDN'T EVEN TASTE IT. Good Grief.
Labels: An Open Letter, Copernicus
posted by Amanda at 00:41
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