[This week, Glossy News is pleased to introduce Tuxedo, a 23-pound spokescat who has requested to provide this op-ed piece, representing the views of household cats everywhere.]
Hey, owner. This is your cat. There appears to be a little confusion as to just exactly who’s in charge here. I know, I know. You pay the electric bill, pay the insurance (whatever that is), and you buy all the food. That does not make you king of my castle. I’m afraid I’m going to have to go over the ground rules one more time if I’m going to allow you to stay here.
I think we can both agree that I am pretty low maintenance. Heck, I sleep 20 hours a day, so the least you can do during the other four hours is drop what you’re doing and pay full attention to me – starting with my meals. I have to say a monotonous diet of Meow Mix day after day is not exactly my idea of haute cuisine. And what’s with the dry food pellets? Do I look like a rabbit? Please have your chef start preparing more interesting entrées for me. Might I suggest steak tartare or perhaps Lobster Newburg?
While we’re on the subject of dining preferences, need I remind you that the toilet is mine? Its primary function, we both know, is as the receptacle for my drinking water. I’m willing to let you share, but for God’s sake please make sure little Princess Sarah remembers to flush after she tinkles. It’s gross. You don’t see me taking a pee in her sippy cup, do you?
There also appears to be some confusion about sleeping quarters. The following locations belong to me: the living room couch, the family room recliner, every square inch of the master bed, any carpeted surface, and the dining room window ledge. In the spirit of compromise, I’m willing to let you share the window ledge – if you ask nicely and come bearing catnip.
Now a word about petting me. I am willing to let you pet me if you feel compelled to do so. I can put up with your scratching me under the chin and behind my ears, or even stroking my belly on occasion. But for the umpteenth time, please leave my paws alone. I’m still pissed at you for de-clawing me back in 2007.
Another thing that bugs me: What’s with the baby goo-goo voice whenever you want to pet me? Do you think it somehow makes your commentary more adorable? Here’s a 411. I’m a cat. I have no fricking clue what you’re saying. And frankly, even if I did, I wouldn’t care. I have more important things to do than to listen to you yammer on – like coughing up another fur ball.
By the way, not that I’m complaining, but would it kill you to give me a few cat treats now and then? After all, who do you think is responsible for killing all the spiders and bugs that sneak into the house? Well, it sure as hell ain’t Fido over there. He’s way too busy licking his genitals to worry about patrolling this place for insect infestation.
Speaking of Fido, thanks a lot for deciding that what this house really needed was a dog. Ever since you brought home that tail-wagging kiss-ass, I can barely get 16 hours of sleep anymore. What were you thinking? Was there not enough slobber on every surface? He’s driving me nuts, always trying to play with me or sniff my butt. And if he sees a bird, he goes apoplectic, barking at the top of his lungs like we’re all under attack. And don’t get me started about his bad breath. What are you feeding him anyway, decayed skunk intestines?
Why did you feel a need to buy a dog anyway? Were you desperately longing to go outside at 2:45 a.m. in 34 degrees just so your new best friend can pee? At least I have the decency to use a litter box. But I guess that’s not nearly as pleasant as picking up dog poop with a plastic bag. Yes, I can see now why you wanted a dog.
I admit that, as your cat, sometimes I tend to shed all over your clothes when I jump on your lap. But what do you expect? In the winter, I have a layer of fur as thick as a yak. It has to go somewhere when spring comes. Besides, I’ve looked at the shower drain. It appears I’m not the only member of this household who is shedding.
But back to my original point. I’m just asking you to be more considerate of my needs as the master of this house. I don’t appreciate having to wait to be fed until you feel like rolling out of bed each morning. And when you start reading a book, I consider that an open invitation for me to lie down on top of it. By now I would have hoped we’ve established that my comfort is more important than your finding out what happens next in your latest Dan Brown novel.
And one other pet peeve: Enough with turning off the laser pointer right as I try to swipe at it. It was not funny the first time. It’s not funny the 247th time.
All I’m asking is for you to adhere to the implied contract we agreed to when I first gave you permission to adopt me: Attend to my every need and whim and I will let you stay. Is that so complicated? And just to show you I have no hard feelings, I went out and brought you a special gift. I’m pretty sure it’s a dead mouse. But it might be a mole. Kind of hard to tell since I bit off its head. I found the perfect place for it: your pillow. No need to thank me.
Well, I must be going. Typing this message without the benefit of opposable thumbs has really tired me out. And I see just the comfy spot to lie down – on top of the sports section you’re about to read. Meow!
– Tuxedo the cat