BROOKLYN - In a carefully crafted tirade sent to the New York Times, Snickers, a domestic short hair cat, vented years of pent-up rage at his biped, or human, companion.
"The way he acts, you'd think he owns me," was one of the milder sentiments expressed in the letter. Snickers no,' Snickers come here,' and every five damn minutes How's my kitty?' How much could I change in five minutes? How much could I change in one day? I'm here more than he is. Is he stupid, forgetful, or is it the beginning of Alzheimer's? And when he calls to me, I'm expected to trot right over. Whenever I ask him to clean my litter box, it's always "Not now, I'm busy."
How busy could he be? Like he can't tear himself away from those stupid soap operas for ten minutes. If I had a steady diet of those television shows, I would go out of my mind.
And he thinks he can touch me anytime he wants. He can't even touch his girlfriend any time he feels like it. What makes her better than me? Nonsense.
And that food he buys on sale. I wouldn't give some of it to a hog. He tells me he likes hunting for specials. That's not hunting. All he has to do is walk up to a shelf and take it. If I want to hunt for something, I have to work at it. OK, I don't hunt much up here on the eighth floor, but it's my pride and skills that he's impugning.
Another time I heard him discussing with his girlfriend about de-clawing me. How would he like it if I tore out his fingernails? I'll tell ya what I would like to do to him. And just between you, me, and your readers, his girlfriend is not a natural blonde. I've seen her dye her hair, when he's not here. Believe me, I'm a more reliable companion than that chick who hangs around. I think she has another boyfriend on the side. I know more English than she thinks I do, and you can take that to the bank.
Well, gotta go now. I just heard the key in the lock. Whenever he comes back from God knows where, I make a big show for him. He's so shallow, that's all it takes to make him feel good.