Monday, January 14, 2013

Dear Cat,

When you die,

we're getting a turtle.

Or some fish.

Something that doesn't catch rabbits and spread their entrails out to spell, "I am carnivore, hear me roar."  Inside our laundry.

Well, actually, if you had done all that (instead of just the entrail-spreading part), maybe you'd have won us a ribbon at a town fair.  Or at least an article in a local rag.  Who am I kidding?  We'd make the national news for that in NZ.

Instead, all we got for your "talent" was some half-hearted morning-barf in the sink while I cleaned the sun-baked, swarming innards (and a solitary big googley eye -- that was the spew-clincher), disinfectant and blood-soiled cleaning rags, and an unmarked grave under our top hedge. 

I figured it was a fair spot since some other carcass was laid to rest up in those parts.  (P.S.  Was that you?  Was it just too big to get home?)

Well, your aruspicy was enough to stomach.  Unfortunately, your latest exploits are not impressing us alphas as I suspect you hoped they would. 

I'm sure all of the other country cats think you're totally fly. 
If only they cleaned up guts
...prospects would be swell for future feline pets. 

In summary: It's not you, it's us,

- Angela and the Lighthouse Family

P.S.  The fact you have never understood that claws are not cuddles whilst making your bed in human laps has not helped your case nor your kind's.  You have undone all the good groundwork our past cats laid.
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