An Open Letter From My Cat
I loathe her because she does not take me seriously. She tries really hard to be funny. But she does not make me laugh. I do not think she is funny. I think she is annoying. I think she needs to take her head out of my belly and stop giggling and saying I am cute. I am not cute. I am a warrior.
I cannot so much as stretch my arms without her thinking I am a marvel cat. I am not a marvel cat. I am a regular cat. When she stretches before her jogs, I do not think anything more of her. I do not think she is special or interesting. All I am thinking when she stretches is that I want her to leave for the jog. One time she fell while she was jogging. She came back bloody. Her elbow was bloody, her hand was bloody and her knee was bloody. She had gravel stuck in her skin. She cannot manage to jog on the two feet she’s been using for over twenty years. She is apparently still getting used to them.
People seem to like her, but I don’t know why. She doesn’t have good attributes. In her iTunes library she has ABBA, Randy Travis, The Muppets and Sean Kingston and she listens to them regularly. (She doesn’t like people to know that, but I’ve released the information!) She plays air drums. Not air guitar like normal people, but air drums. No one cares about drummers so I do not understand the reasoning behind this fantasy. She is disgusting. Her hair clogs the drains. I do not understand how she is not bald. There is enough hair in the drains of her bathroom to make toupees for middle-aged men. She also likes to put melodramatic music on and slowly turn her head, pretending she is in the opening credits of a dramedy television show starring herself and her wacky, sugary friends. Again, I do not understand this fantasy. She is not an actress, so this will never come true. She is a writer. She should fantasize herself with greasy hair and pimples on her face, wearing a hooded sweatshirt and pajama shorts, writing at a computer in her apartment for hours, with a bowl of stir-fry on the floor and Swedish fish scattered everywhere. That is what a writer has to look forward to at the very best.
She cannot dance. When she tries to dance it looks like a deer trying to walk for the first time. She looks like a chubby mermaid who’s being denied the water she needs to move gracefully. When she dances, I wonder if she hears the same music that is playing for everyone else. Even I, as a cat, know she is rhythmically misunderstood.
She is happy most of the time but sometimes she cries. I do not understand this human feature. This wetness that drops from the eyeballs when a human is in pain. I try to sniff the tear to collect data, and she cries more because she thinks I am being caring. I am not being caring. I want a test sample. She hugs me close and I let her because it gets me closer to the tears. I sniff them. They do not smell. I am losing interest.
I am diabetic. She can deal with that. It is her responsibility, as the person who rescued me and gave me food, water and love out of the kindness of her heart. She owes me the $1,300 that has totaled my vet bills. She owes me the $48 prescription food that lasts for only 24 days. She owes me the $160 insulin and $20 syringes that she has to order online from totaldiabetessupply.com, a website of which she is now a member. She owes me all of this, and more. She says she is a writer. She can write about it.
She has switched me to diabetes food. If I had claws like a Lion or teeth like a Great White Shark I would use them on her for switching me to this food. That is why Bengal Tigers eat hyenas and tasty gazelles and I eat Hills Prescription Weight Loss Formula for Diabetic Cats. Because they are the kings of the animal kingdom, and I am a little domestic bitch.
She is always taking pictures of me. I try to look miserable in all of them, so her friends will not think I enjoy her company or love her. She likes to put me in funny clothes or positions, then upload them to her Facebook or her Instagram along with a snarky comment. I do not like that I have no say in this. I have no control over how the people of the internet see me. This makes me hate her more. The angrier I look, the funnier she seems to think the picture is. I cannot win.
I am trapped in this apartment with a cat whom she calls Cheese. Cheese has the intelligence of a cinder block. He is overly grateful and cuddles with her because he loves her, not because he wants food. I do not understand this. Cheese is hyper and likes to explore. I want him to explore the outside. I want him to explore his way to the mountains. His color annoys me. He is orange. Orange is too bright for my eyes.
Her friends say I am fat. I think they are fat.
I do not like going in her moving car for many reasons. I do not like not knowing our destination. Sometimes we are going five minutes down the road to the vet. Other times I am stuck in the car for three hours and I end up at her mother’s house with another cat and a dog I want to guide into a bear trap. One time, she put me in the car and gave me medicine and then everything went dark. Three days later I woke up in California. You just never know. Every time I get in the moving car, I do not know where I will end up. She puts me in a black cage so I do not escape. I do not blame her for this because if I was not in the cage, I would indeed escape. I want to jump out the window like a fugitive escaping the jail cells that have confined him since 2007. She is the prison warden preventing me from a better life. I want to feel the wind in my fur. On the trip to her mother’s, I meow for the whole three hours. We finally get there. Her mom is like her, except 20 years later.
This gives me no hope. Her mother babies me. This I enjoy.
However, whilst riding in the moving car, I realize that if I do escape, I will die. I will starve, or I will go into diabetic shock, or I will get run over by a vehicle. If I befriended a motley crew of alley cats, they’d see me as a threat since I am so well-spoken and portly. They would obviously kill me for their own nourishment.
I suppose I will stay here, with her. After all, she is my bitch.
You can read more from Emily Messina on her blog.