He's upstairs! 1st door on the left. The security alarm code is 574...

I have a theory; it has developed over time amidst snide looks, thieving of favorite couch spots, relentless meowing for your 5 a.m. feeding, and outrageously expensive health bills. After experiencing these things on my own and talking to others in similar situations. I have the distinct notion that you don’t give a shit about me.

When I get home after a hard day’s work to help pay for our shelter, food and god knows what else; I am greeted, not at the door with a tail wagging or smile shining, but with a small fury little sack of hair on my couch with a bitchy smirk on her face. “Where’s my damn food? Where have you been all day? What did you bring me?” those looks say. Mr. Buttons you don’t even act like I’m a person. You act like I am solely there to bring you food, pleasure, and the occasional hit of catnip. I feel less and less like a pet owner and more like a drug dealer putting up with a relentless junky who won’t leave my house, but I can’t kick out because people would say it’s cruel. For some reason being covered in Fur has given you rights that other freeloaders can only dream of.

Well FUCK THAT Mr. Buttons I’m done being your bitch! You refuse to poop outside so I have to put a box of smelly lime green and blue rocks so you can take a crap comfortably. If you refuse to crap, then I have to get a cover for said box so you can dookie in private. Like you even care who sees your asshole the way you stick your tail up to high heaven when you walk by my guests. It’s amazing how you’ll clean yourself in the center of the living room during the Football game but need the room to be a certain temperature at night or you can’t poop with out whining and meowing like your having a fucking cat baby. You’re cute, but what’s the point in having a cute animal if it can’t go outside?! If girls were to see you and how cute you are then maybe I would have a chance to start a conversation with them. But now the only time they see you is when they come inside, and obviously if they are coming inside then the deal has already been inked and I don’t need you to help me get some poon. If anything Mr. Buttons you’re a complete poon block! She walks in, sees you and of course you want attention, when do you not want attention you bastard? So instead of us getting busy on the couch, dining room table, kitchen sink, or even the bed, I have to sit there and listen to you purr for someone else as you get a full body massage. It’s not even like I am special to you anyway. You act the same towards my friends you hardly ever see as you do with me who puts your disgusting and expensive food in your dish every morning! I get this feeling that if I were ever victim to a prowler you would be more likely to purr up against his leg and let him play with you for a while before you showed him where I was sleeping and probably helped him rob and beat me, maybe even kill me! If he did kill me, what the hell would you do? Probably lick up some of my blood and then meow because you’re hungry. You have no fucking clue!

Not to mention how damn expensive it is just to keep you alive. The way the animal activists talk, you figure I would have to support you in an iron lung if it came to that. Regardless of my needs as a human being they fail in comparison to your razor sharp whiskers and beady little Korean-like eyes. You look evil and now I have to make sure you get your cat herpes C vaccination. You swallowed a zipper last year and it cost me $800 bucks to have it removed from your stomach. No insurance, no government aid, all out of my pocket because you’re too damn stupid to tell between a mouse and pair of fuckin overalls! When I pet you and tell you this, you just fucking look at me like it’s my job and I should be honored to save your divine life.

Then, like piss icing on top of a wet shit sheet cake, you act like you don’t even want to fucking be there. You always try to escape when I’m leaving the house, and your to stupid and weak to make it back to the house IF I let you outside, which I can never do because if you die, you little bitch, I will have a bunch of left over cat food and a bunch of friends and family feeling bad for me even though inside I will be elated. They will then buy me a brand new kitty to ease my pain and the cycle starts all over again. Then a year into it you show back up, scrubby, diseased and of course as pregnant as a ghetto whore in Detroit. You have a disgusting mix of a liter that only proves you had sex several times in one night with not only different cats but different species and I have to pawn the salvageable ones off on my friends and drown the rest. You carry on even more pissed at me for breaking up your family completely removing blame from yourself as I not only have to feed you, your new sister and probably one of your babies, but also take your snide ass looks like your the king of Shitsville.

Go fuck yourself cat.