Okay, people, we need to have a word about the Smushy One. I need for you to talk to her for me. She’s gettin’ all weird about me going outside. I’m a grown cat. I need to roam free. I need my space. There are also some ladies that require attention and quite frankly, they get irritable when I don’t make our dates. It’s enough to drive a cat to drink.
That guy who lived here, the one with the Quivery Dog, used to let me out all the time, and I gotta tell ya, I got a taste for it. I spend an awful lot of time telling the Smushy One about it, too, like for hours. She ignores me, though, and won’t open the door no matter how much I claw at it or how loud I get. Sometimes when she opens the door, I’ll make a mad rush and get free but the Smushy One gets real grimace-y when that happens. Usually I puke up some grass on her carpet afterwards, to show her who the boss is around here. She yells a lot when that happens. Man, those are good days.
Also, while we are on the subject, can you tell her that I really need the whole bed to myself? I mean, I’m ten pounds. I need my space. I’m particularly interested in the pillows right now but she insists on hogging the one that I want, all the time. Seeing as how I’m not sure which one I want every night, though, she should just give them all to me. Tell her that, okay? Lately I’ve taken to spreading out over both of them, right in the middle and I think she’s finally getting a clue.
And while you are talking to her, make her leave my face alone. I like the dirt. It gives me a rakish air that drives the dames wild. She keeps cleaning it off and I tell her, “I’m a grown cat. I need my space. Leave it alone.” But she doesn’t listen. It’s exhausting.
Don’t make her too upset, though. I heard rumors of a tree being put up with lots of clanky glass balls on it. I want that tree! I’ve got a hankering to climb one and since she won’t let me outside . . .
Mrow.
Murph
Love, Jimmie 