Hissy Cat

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October 19, 2005

Letter To My Cat

Dear Gerty,

I love you. You know that. Living with you is the best decision I ever made. You know that, too. But you also know, and I know, too, and you know that I know, and you know that I know you know, that of late some concerns have arisen, as is bound to happen whenever two individuals, no matter how much they love one another, decide to live in a small place together. The conventional wisdom on such matters dictates an open line of honest communication. That, Gerty, is why I am writing this letter to you. I want us to live harmoniously and happily together.

One thing I've been meaning to talk to you about, Gerty, is this business about your new friend. I may never understand myself what it is about that strange, massive, and-- if I may say so-- none too bright, yeti of a cat that attacked my arm that one time that has won your heart after you so ferociously and, yes, callously chased sweet, orange Leo, who wanted nothing more than to peacably observe the pigeons and make lovey eyes at you, out of the courtyard.

But I understand that the heart is a wild thing we choose not the paths it takes. I'm happy for you, Gerty. You've found a creature to be fond of, a creature that is fond of you, someone to lie beside you in the grass, someone to cuddle and spoon you to sleep, someone to bathe you with her tongue, someone to gnaw the dingleberries off of your rump. Good for you. I ask only that you and your friend stop making those god-awful lowing noises at one another for tens of minutes on end. Seriously, what are you doing? It is sweet, if unusual, the way the two hunch down, nose-to-nose and low soulfully at one another. But, please. The sound is less than fetching to human ears. You sound like a drowning peacock, and, frankly, it is embarrassing. Think of the neighbors.

So often does the bathroom become a matter of contention between people who live together, that what I am about to say should not surprise you. Gerty, please stop pooping in the garden. And if you so love the thrill of pooping in the outdoors that to ask you to stop would be asking the impossible, then at least try not to poop right within three feet of the door and directly in front of the chair where I sit when I smoke. It occurs to me as I write this that your poop spot in the garden is the same spot where you like to gift me with dead rats. I don't care for the rats, either, but I understand that because there is no present you would like so much as a rat you presume that I feel the same way. You are wrong. But I understand the sentiment that motivates you. But Gerty, the poop? What's with the poop?

I know that when you howl at the garden door it means you want me to let you out. Believe me, I know, and there is no need to jump all over the coffee table once you see me opening the door. I'd had a hard enough week before you slapped the beer bottle with your tail, sending waterlogged cigarette butts and foul, foul liquid all over the room, that only made it that much worse. And when I tell you it's not time for you to go out, please respect that. Do not, for instance, howl at the door at five in the morning when sleep is at long last tentatively extending her mercies. And please don't jump on my desk and try to shove yourself between the window and the venetian blinds. Not only does that cause a terrible racket but also breaks the blinds.

And while we are on the subject of the great outdoors, there is something else I've been wondering. When you run towards the pigeons that perch on the windowsill of the crazy neighbor that feeds them, you might consider not meowing as you hurtle towards them. That's how they know you're coming. That's why they fly away. I think you know that, too. After all, you do not meow at the rats as you catch them. I might think you were trying to be the pigeons' friend except for that gleam in your eye, that gleam that says, "I want to eat you." Oh, and next time you are considering jumping up towards the windowsill, do try and keep in mind you are missing a leg. You will not make the jump. You will, instead, come crashing down through the shrubbery with a panic stricken look in your eye, and the pigeons will blink down at you mockingly and not even ruffle their feathers.

In fact, it would mean a lot to me if you would make a general rule of calculating your lack of leg when planning your jumps. I know that when you fail to clear a jump to the desk and go sliding back down the side, hooking with desperation whatever you little claws can, you don't mean to bring down the foot high stack of papers with you, splaying them all over my floor, but with a little more forethought, we could avoid these situations altogether.

Love,
Joanna

Posted by hissycat at October 19, 2005 12:03 AM

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