My Dear Human,
I apparently need to keep you on a short leash, because you regularly forget why you are on this earth to begin with. You have one very simple job to do -- feed me and pay attention to me when I am not asleep. I fail to understand why you allow anything with a keyboard or a remote to take your attention away from your only job, which is me. Technology has made you its slave and I prefer it when you are my slave. Freud would say that I have technology-envy, but he can't really say anything because he's dead.
While I'm venting, I am concerned about your obsession with hoarding my excrement. When we go outside, you always lunge for it with your little blue baggie so you can get it before anyone else does and then you just throw it away. Can you explain that to me? Never mind. You're an odd duck, but I like you most of the time. Especially when you hand out the food.
But I feel compelled to ask who you really think is taking care of whom in this house? You, with the opposable thumbs, fetch and dole out the food but who is guarding the food from the mice and burglars? Who has the giant canine teeth? And which one of us is on guard duty day and night because we don't cotton to spending hours in front of the TV or the computer or yapping on the phone? Just throwing it out there for you to ponder.
As for the furniture, you like to sleep on the bed, same as me. Somewhat confusing to me is why you think I should sleep on the floor. You are a nice person, but you don't think things through very well. Just sayin'. By the way, I like the bed, especially when you're not at home. Nanananabooboo.
Now, can we talk about the cat for a moment? Such a kiss-ass. All that rubbing up against your legs when you come home as if he has done a damned thing since you left hours earlier. Let me enlighten you: He slept. He yawned. He stretched. I was on duty protecting the fat lazy cat and all of the food in the kitchen while you were gone. I was not sleeping. Except maybe on your bed for just a little bit.
Lastly, I would like to request that you not call me Sugar Pie or Honey Bun in front of that white poodle who lives down the street. Please. Stop. It. You're killing me. Aside from not wanting to have my manhood impugned in front of the lady dogs, I may also need plausible deniability that you and I are acquainted. Just help me out, pal. No offense.
Is it dinner yet? Can I have some food? I want some food. Now. Please. Hello? Step away from the computer and no one will get hurt. Not even the lazy cat. I promise. Chop chop.
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