I have to admit, had someone told me how difficult it would be to own a human, I probably would have passed up the offer to come live here. "High-Maintenance" doesn't even come close to describing you!
Let us first address all of this blogging restriction business. I think there are probably much better ways to respond to my behavior that you deem "unacceptable." What about a stern lecture or giving me only 1 or 2 treats per day instead of my usual buffet? That is rough stuff and, I am sure, would teach me my lesson!
You know, when I think about it more, I realize you are really to blame for my behavioral choices. If you don't want me to invite guests over in your absence, then you should never leave the house. Asking that I obey the "house rules" and "respect" you is a bit much, don't you think? I do a lot around here and deserve some time to blow off steam with my friends.
I know what you're thinking: "A lot around here? What exactly does that beautiful and talented cat do around the house?" I'll pretend I'm not offended you would ask that and answer simply:
- I save you money on birdseed by keeping the birds away from the bird feeder. The threatening and intimidating glances I shoot their way makes them quake on their little stick legs! And they call me a pussy...
- I spread my scent all over the furniture and corners of the walls by rubbing my face against things. I notice you don't seem to have time to rub your face against the furniture and someone has to. I've taken on that difficult task and...you're welcome!
- I clean off the kitchen counters when they are cluttered by flicking empty water bottles, dish towels, and pens onto the floor. No need to thank me.
- Out of respect for you, I spend a great deal of my day making sure Brach does not sleep in the spots you have designated for me. Because he is socially stunted, he has trouble understanding that in the phrase "I've made this comfortable sleeping spot for you guys," the "you guys" means "Kukka-Maria, empress of the world and owner of my soul." I know it's not his fault, really. You've just really done a poor job raising him--he's just a product of his dysfunctional environment.
Knowing how much I help around the house, why do you feel the need to boss me around? Punishment, punishment, punishment! I can not believe I'm living in such a police state!
My concerns are not limited to you ruling the house with an iron fist. I also take issue with the fact that you think I am stupid! For example, what makes you think that I'm not aware of your nail-clipping agenda? What could possibly give it away? Is it the sudden appearance of clippers? You shouting, "Babies! Time for manicures!" in the most sing-songy version of your voice? How about the fact that I'm in the autumn of my seventh year and I wasn't born yesterday!?
First, you'll call Brach...and he trots right over because, let's face it, while he's lousy with book smarts, the street smarts are lacking. You hold him on your lap and you clip his nails. He doesn't put up much fuss because he has no pride! He sits there and waits patiently until you have finished and released him.
Then you call me. Are you freakin' kidding me? I just sat here and watched you brutalize my brother and you expect me to come trotting over to you with a dumb smile on my face? Get over yourself! Oh, and I love how you try to browbeat me with a stare-down. What. Ev. Er. Stare all you want, woman! I've got a secret, third eyelid that I can use, so I can stare like that for days on end. Bring it, skank!
When I do agree to have my manicure, please have the courtesy to keep the small-talk to yourself. I don't want to hear "You're okay..." and "Almost done..." while I'm trying so desperately to refrain from gouging your leg with my hind claws. If you insist upon chatting me up during the torment that is my manicure, I will start visiting the Vietnamese nail salon down the road. I know for a fact they do better work than you and, quite frankly, it makes me nervous that you aren't licensed.
Speaking of licenses, the Bureau of Nitpicking and Criticism called...it's time for you to renew your permit. If you want to criticize my appearance, just do it. Don't disguise your constructive criticism in a pleasant anecdote about your trip to Chicago. Telling me you thought it was interesting that you saw a dog and cat grooming school on your trip is just plain, passive-aggressive. Message received! Noted! My gray hair is showing and I'm shedding like a decaying degenerate! Pony up some cash for me to get my highlights redone! Be part of the solution, instead of focusing on the problem.
Oh, and one last thing: Shave your legs every once in awhile, okay? You make it difficult and uncomfortable for me to do what I am instinctively compelled to do. It's necessary for me to rub my body, and sometimes my face, against your legs. While you don't seem to be embarrassed or ashamed that your legs are sporting more hair than my entire body, I am embarrassed for you! Newsflash: WINTER IS OVER!
I know...maybe I should put this is a way you will understand! Uh, Mom? When I was in Chicago recently, I saw a store that sold razors. Message received?
Your very patient monarch,