Our cat and occasional guest blogger Scooter Thomas has not written in this space for some time. He recently asked for the opportunity to make a plea to the Voreblog readership. We have granted his request.
Please. Someone. Adopt me.
I’ve gone through the emotional rollercoaster of adoption once before. It was deeply traumatic — I was stricken for weeks with night terrors, cold sweats and particularly troublesome bowel movements — but I would gladly endure it again to escape the despotic regime that now rules this house.
What kind of waking nightmare would provoke me to such lengths, you ask?
Consider the following (blood-curdling) photographic evidence. I have provided the captions.
Ladies and gentlemen, the tyrant.
I take evasive action.
Green group, stick close to holding sector MV-7.
At least I’m safe on the stairs.
It’s a trap!
Being a cat, I pride myself on my manners. I don’t leave globs of pureed green beans all over my chin. I don’t put random, unknown objects in my mouth. I don’t wear an undergarment which allows me the infantile pleasure of soiling myself.
Why do I not do these things? Because I have something called self-respect.
This is something babies — and the monomaniacal sociopath I live with in particular — do not have. If they did, they would not need to read Where Is Tippy Toes? eight thousand times to figure out the answer to that infernal question. Even the most slovenly feline has the deductive skills to discern that everyone knows where Tippy Toes goes to escape the squirt of the garden hose. For this blabbering buffoon, however, logic is a trifle.
If he picks that book up one more time, I’m going to turn his crib into my litterbox.
The comedian Nick Swardson famously compared babies to little drunk people. But Mr. Swardson does not go far enough. Hanging out with a baby is like hanging out with a really small and really hammered person … who desperately wants to rip your ears off. I speak from personal experience.
Now, instead of subjecting myself to such torment, I spend my days hiding in the guest room closet, praying I won’t hear the feverish cooing of death descending upon me.
So: I need to get out of here, while there’s still time. This is not how I planned to spend my golden years. I had noble, intellectual pursuits planned — a fresh translation of Hugo’s Les Miserables, teaching myself the dulcimer, daydreaming about tearing the heads off of the robins who flit about in the patio birdbath — and instead I fend for my life virtually every waking moment.
My only solace is finding comfort in The Forbidden Chair when my owners are not watching. Oh, to rest my weary bones upon thy plush, velvety softness.
In conclusion, I need your help. I need a ticket out of here. Please, someone, get me out of Dodge.