Dear Ash -
We need to talk. Yeah, I know you can't talk - or read - so just sit there and look fuzzy while I talk. Look, I want you to know that I do love you. Seven years ago, when Rob's babysitter asked me to take you in, I said yes. Because I just had "SUCKER" tattooed across my forehead.
I've never considered myself a cat person, mainly because that whole litterbox thing creeps me out. Crapping in a pile of sand in my house? Uhhh, no. Nasty. The fact that the dogs will gladly clean the litterbox does not make the situation any more acceptable, actually.
But there you were, new to the house, hiding behind the washing machine all day. Eventually you began exploring the rest of the house....after we had gone to sleep. It was so sweet, the way you would sit and yowl in the hallway right outside our bedroom. Rob enjoyed that, since he was only a year old at the time and needed just one more reason to scream and not sleep. That endeared you to me from the start.
So here we are, older and grayer. Wait! You've always been gray! Anyway, you are now my favorite pet. And apparently I am yours. Don't think I haven't realized that you follow me around. Yeah, I'm sure in your super-cool cat mind it is totally a coincidence that after I enter any room you just happen to come in and settle yourself where you can see me. I understand that you want to be close to me. Buuuuuuut...
Is it really necessary to show your love by cleaning out my ears and nose with your sandpaper tongue? All the while doing the paw massage thing on my throat with your needle-sharp claws. At 1:18am. And 3:34am. And 17 minutes before my alarm goes off in the morning. Really, must you? Also, the spouse is tired of looking at your butthole when you get between us in the bed. I'm kind of OK with that, but thought I'd mention it on his behalf.
Now, the cereal thing. Perhaps it is some kind of cat magic that enables you to know when anyone in the family is eating a bowl of cereal. If I eat some tabouli, no cat. Guacamole? No cat. Chicken noodle soup? No cat. Raisin bran? CAT! Cat on the arm of the sofa! Cat in my face! Hungry, dying, tortured cat who must have miiiiiiiilk.
Obviously you are psychic, so I have a proposition: you give me the lottery numbers it is organic milk for you every day, baby. Just a thought. I'd leave you lots of money in my will, like crazy Leona Helmsley did for her dog. Sure I will. (we've already established that you can't read)
Well, I'd better close before I get too mushy. Speaking of mushy, the next time you barf during the night could you please do so on a solid surface floor? I see no reason to do that on the carpet. Where I walk. Barefoot.