(Above: Right here, buddy. Fuckin’ right here.)
It’s about time we crossed this bridge. The food display has weakened of late, and I fear the supply will run out before you realize it.
Sadly, a trip to the location where you purchase those crunchy tidbits will not ease my sorrow.
But wait, there’s more.
I’ve discarded the collar you made for me. To be honest, I don’t care for pink, and regardless the amount of times you call me Trixie, that’s not my fucking name.
It’s Alex, you self-absorbed, assuming, ass.
Nope, still more.
That “litter box” I hear you groaning over so frequently through the week-it’s beyond repair.
No amount of those grey tiny pebbles has made it any easier to walk into that cage and do my business. If I can be truthful, my gag reflex is reaching a fucking mid-life crisis. It’s unhealthy. It’s barbaric.
You, sir, are neglectful.
You used to wave your lone finger at me when I would soil the carpet, and I say to you-do something about my stool dome, or you will be waving that finger for the rest of your days.
Don’t buy what I’m sellin’? Try me. I can light this fucking room up, brother. When you’re gone to work, there I’ll be, drinking out of the toilet, squeezing every drip and drop out of all the leaky faucets.
And the dog’s water dish? It’s fucking mine.
Regardless of how it may appear-I own that bitch.
I do apologize, though. I’ve strolled away from the point.
I really, really hate baths.
Read a book, dumbass. I can clean myself just fine. No more nights of raising all my legs and arms in defense=no more nights where you scream “fuck you, you stupid cat!” after I accidentally claw your cheek and wrist.
And I do put emphasis on “accidentally”. You can take that whatever way you want it. But let’s be honest, we both know where I’m coming from.
Shit’s gonna change around here, pal. One way or another, we’re gonna get more “cat-like” in this bitch.
That means shoes off when you get in the door. Full dish of food and water. Clean my dropping area. And leave me to clean myself.
Hey-Hey!-I’m talking to you!
Listen up, and listen good. I don’t slap you around or bite your ankles when you don’t shower for two days. Who gives you the right to throw me under running water-or even worse-plunge me into the dark abyss of a full tub? Who, damnitt, who?
Alas, I digress.
My stay here hasn’t been a complete loss. I do like some of our moments together.
For instance, we share the same taste in music. Real mellow shit, stuff you can write or read to. I like that. I dig your style, man. Straight up.
Our movie taste is solid, too. Like a rock. Remember when we watched Die Hard together? We looked at each other at the end of the movie-assuring each of ourselves how much ass it indeed did kick.
I would have given you a high-five if you hadn’t had me in such a tight, closed-up hug. Seriously, if I want to be by you, I’ll be by you. Let a cat breathe, son. Let a cat breathe.
Anyways, I just felt I should bring some of this to your attention, as it won’t be long before your residence stinks like my urine and gets clawed to shit.
And if no changes are made, as I am so politely asking (demanding), bad things will continue to happen. Horrible things, that you cannot even begin to fathom.
Trust me, partner. You don’t want to even know an inkling about what goes on in my head. While you are sleeping…well, let’s let the mystery do it’s dirty work by itself.
I’ll let that little gem work inside your brain, fair friend. Because while you’re sleeping or away at work, I’m conjuring up my next move. My next plan.
But I’ll put it on hold…for now. My secretary knows where the files are, and the paperwork is ready. Take heed to my advice and suggestions, or you will truly have my fury unleashed on your over-hyped existence.
PS. I have noticed that you still seem to be unsure of my sex. You blubbering ass. I have balls, man. I have balls.