An Open Letter to My Cat: You had me at meow

Dear Sadie,

I love you.  You know I do.  I mean, I carried you for however long cats gestate.  I birthed you, for crissake. Don’t you dare listen to people who tell you otherwise.

I give you things.  I buy you expensive cheap toys and then go into the bathroom to cuss the world when you prefer to chew on my expensive therapy books instead.

I let you sit on my lap.  Even when I am trying to blog and eat ice cream at the same time.  Even in the summer, when you’re a steaming ball of fur that sticks to my sweaty legs.  Yummy.

I brush you.  Even though you get into a frenzy and try to bite the brush and end up biting my hand.  I understand; you can’t control yourself.  Those crazy social grooming-induced endorphins render you impulsive and violent.  But I know you bite because you care.

I feed you.  Even though you’re picky, and not even consistently picky.  You really love to keep me on my toes.

Most of all, I clean up after you.  I do all the normal expected cleaning up, sure – with pleasure.  I scoop your box full of clumped liquid and solid evil and then breathe in dust that probably causes evil-like organisms to grow in my lungs.  *cough, cough*

But you see, I go above and beyond because you take me to that place.  You challenge me.

It would be too easy for all the evil to be deposited in your box, and so you like to hide it.  And boy does that get an enthusiastic reaction from me.  Boy oh fucking boy.

It would also be too easy for evil to come out only one end of your Abomination Factory you call a body.  Gotta increase production during these hard times.  Maybe you have a monthly quota or something, I don’t know.

These additional little gifts, these little bits of Chewbacca Surprise really light up my mornings, especially when I am already late for work.

For all this, I’d like to thank you.  Truly.

Because what would I do with all that free time not spent scooping and scrubbing and cussing?  Let’s be honest, I’d probably be eating more ice cream.

So thanks.  I’d be fat(ter) and with less black lung disease without you.

And thanks also for the little extras you throw in, like when you serve as my alarm clock I never set on Saturday mornings.  You have no idea how much joy it brings me to hear your howling cries of longing as you reach up and jiggle the handle of my annoyingly loose bedroom doorknob.  I miss you, too, my little fur-demon.  I guess we can both sleep in when we’re dead.  Let’s see which one of us goes first.

You complete me.  You had me at meow.

Your loving Mama,

Melissa

P.S. – Remind me to tighten my bedroom doorknob.  And electrify it.

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