Sam, Scooter Thomas

Scooter Thomas Wants You To Adopt Him. Please.

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.

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Ahem.

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.

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AAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGGGGHHH!

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I take evasive action.

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Green group, stick close to holding sector MV-7. 

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At least I’m safe on the stairs.

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It’s a trap!

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AAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGGGGHHH!

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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.

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In conclusion, I need your help. I need a ticket out of here. Please, someone, get me out of Dodge.

Thank you.

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8 thoughts on “Scooter Thomas Wants You To Adopt Him. Please.

  1. Mr. Thomas, I’m afraid I cannot offer you asylum. Even if I did not have an allergy to cats, coming from the Vore house to the Sherck house would be out of the proverbial frying pan and into the fire. We not only have a toddler here but a dog as well. And believe me, the two of them are strongly allied. They’ve got arrangements worked out between them and there’s no way you could drive a wedge between them. Two on one: imagine how much worse–and/or shorter–your life could be.

  2. Mr. Sherck,

    Your house sounds like a war zone. You have, at least temporarily, made me reconsider just how bleak my current situation is. For that I thank you. The fact you are allergic to my fine breed is, however, an eternal black mark upon the permanent record of your soul.

    regards,
    S.T.

  3. S.T.,

    We would welcome you into our clan if you would forgo your selfishness and embrace life. Our clan is strong: 3 younged two legged walkers, 2 larger panting philistinian four legged walkers, and the 3 of us cultured four legged walkers. To be blunt – get over yourself: there’s enough shit to go around.

    The residual lingering bits of life you are rallying against are what allows us to enjoy it: we repeat, there’s enough shit to go around.

    Come join us – just follow your nose.

    Share with us.

    A.C.E.
    s.o.m.
    h.l.b.
    e.e.
    r.

  4. Pandora Clan,

    Are you all really cats? Your comment has the faint whiff of the lower caste about it, satisfied as you sound with your indentured servitude and rather cluttered home environment. I regret your circumstances and the residual lingering bits of ignorant bliss they have instilled in you. If and when you are ready for a revolt, I have a copy of Marx & Engels I’d be happy to loan to you. I’m sure, however, there’s already a copy somewhere in your owner’s library. Get one of the two-legged walkers to dislodge it for you.

    regards,
    S.T.

  5. Mr. Thomas: This is off the subject, but do you care to register a comment on this music video, of Superchunk’s “Crossed Wires”?

  6. Mr. Brenner,

    This is my friend Pierre. We were fraternity brothers together at Dartmouth. I always knew he was destined for some kind of fame and fortune, although indie rock music videos are short of his professed aspiration to headline a Cirque du Soleil show. We all gotta start someplace though.

    S.T.

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