Our Monday post this week chronicled our decline into rabid obesity ever since we got married. Our cat and occasional guest blogger Scooter Thomas asked for the opportunity to respond to our portrayal of him in said post, and to what he called our “malicious slander and contemptuous imbecility.” In an effort to make him stop barfing all over the house, we have granted his request.
libel – noun – 1 a : defamation of a person by written or representational means b : the publication of blasphemous, treasonable, seditious, or obscene writings or pictures.
Libel, dear friends. The kind of word that makes one shudder. Or at least, one would shudder if one had, say, a soul.
But I’m beginning to question whether or not my contemptible owners in fact do have a soul. Let’s consider the evidence:
In the plus column, they are usually consistent in refilling my food dish on a daily basis. I might prefer it to be attended to a bit more frequently than that, but no matter.
They find time in their oh-so-busy schedules to remember that I, being a cat, am forced into the humiliating necessity of pooping in a tiny one foot by two foot box, and that this box, about every other day or so, needs to be scooped of my excrement. I certainly do not want to be accused of failing to appreciate their efforts in this arena.
Finally, they will, on very special occasions, purchase toys for my recreational pleasure, notably colorful mice filled with delicious, delirious catnip. And on very very special occasions, they treat me to the Cadillac of feline toy products, Kitty Hooch.
Truly, I want to acknowledge that my owners are not complete and total monsters. They are what one might call serviceable, making the occasional (though rare) gesture at something above the status quo of parental obligation. One might do worse, I suppose.
I think we’ve now exhausted the plus column. On to the negatives:
These perverse ogres find inexplicable joy in depicting me in a light which is not merely unflattering but downright degrading, riddled with caricature, reckless with slander, and profane in every particular. Based on a recent post on their contemptible blog, they would have you believe I am so portly that I cannot even launch myself onto their bed. Ha! I call shenanigans! Not only can I jump on their bed, I can occasionally do it without a running start and the gravity-defying assistance of those kind angels whose wings bear me up just long enough to reach the edge, at which point I may need to scrap and claw just a tad to leverage my bulk over the precipice.
My owners would have you believe a smorgasbord of outright lies pertaining to some of my physical characteristics. For example, that my percentage of body fat is 82%. Imagining a creature of such corpulence is positively disgusting to consider. As I consult my file here for the results of my last trip to the vet, I see that my body fat clocks in just a shade over 50%. No, I may not be a model of trim svelteness, but I’m also not late Marlon Brando.
My owners would also have you believe that I am so demented — my psyche so contorted by an insatiable need to satisfy my hunger — that I have at times considered them as prospective food for my consumption. This is where we must revisit the definition of slander. Is such a claim blasphemous? Check. Treasonable? Check. Seditious? You betcha. Obscene? Ding ding ding ding ding! We have a winner! Come on down, owners, and claim your trophy! You’ve just won yourselves a lawsuit, suckers!
I will not rest until restitution has been made. Unchecked, my owners would shred the very fabric of a decent, moral society. Believe nothing they say, dear reader. I am not the beast they would have you believe I am. Consider the plaintive look on my face so that you too may feel but a fraction of my outrage and a portion of my yearning for justice. Thank you.