Since your daddy reads my blog and hates when I say anything even remotely not full of worship for all that is you with the pointy ears and whiskers, I know I'll be in trouble for this, but the world needs to know of the injustice.
First, let's review. You came to us with a sob story involving suburban rednecks with rifles instead of hearts, but it was on a temporary basis because there was no more room at the kitty inn already occupied by those who would become your brothers. Then Tom fell in love with you, and I
When you do not get along with other cats or randomly bite me when I pet you, I try to remember the rednecks with rifles. Tom reminds me often that you had a bad, um, kittenhood, so I cut you some slack. At some point, though, we are responsible for the person we choose to become - er, OK, that's only for people. Never mind that bit.
I buy you special and expensive fat girl food, encourage you on your diet, love you sweetly and gently as if you've never bitten me, admire your gorgeous colors, sing special songs made just for you with love by me and do my level best to make sure you are happy and content and feel well-loved, especially while Tom is gone in Tulsa during the apartness.
The last big peeing incident, I did a haiku, knew it was you, was chastised by the kitteh daddy for automatically assuming it was you, took votes (most agreed with me), nanny-cammed your ass (same post), caught you in the very act and posted for all to see. (Oh, but you were not done yet, not even close, and so I gave up on my makeshift futon and now sleep in a big girl bed again.)
This time, there is no video evidence, but I still know what you did
I woke many hours earlier than I damn well felt like just so that I could prepare for another day of work since that's how I continue to provide your kibble and a cozy home. I placed my clothes just outside the bathroom door while I showered, just like every morning (my little routine - then I go from there into the computer room to get dressed with the Internets and all of y'all that email me or are on Plurk and whatnot along with my morning news).
This morning, somebody peed my pants. And it wasn't me. I was in the shower. It was you. I know it was you.
You are on notice.
I love you, I love your daddy, but this is not acceptable. Last night your daddeh guessed that I'd soon be sending another little care package because I called him from the Target asking certain revealing questions about sweets, but if you don't shape up, I may poke some holes in the box and ship your furry little ass to him. Since you would take up the space where the yummies would be, I guess I wouldn't be able to send them to him after all, and I'd have to eat them myself. In a pee-free home.
Alternate option? I'll send you to Lou because he's commented a time or two about kitty being the other, other white meat, or something, and you would make for a mean kitty Fricassée dish.
Just. Stop. Peeing. On. My. Stuff.