Dear Small-Yet-Rapidly-Growing-Thing,
You will forgive us if we fail to offer our felicitations upon the occasion of your recent holiday. As we were banned to the basement during your party and left to forage for stray corn chex and crackers that purport to be fish yet aren't, we feel no guilt over our failure to select an appropriate gift. However, should you feel slighted, mouse season is rapidly approaching.
In the last two years, we have undergone a status change so dramatic that we now feel as welcome as Kanye West at any event with a microphone. While we do appreciate the fact that we have not had our annual poking and prodding in quite some time, we deeply mourn the loss of treats, surprise toys, little cans of yum, belly rubs, and regular brushing. You get to wake up secure in the knowledge that if a car trip is taken you will go. If a park is to be visited, you will be the (often sole) beneficiary. If fish is on the menu, your piece is guaranteed. You, my dear not-so-bald thing, are a usurper whom we have grudgingly come to tolerate. Your enthusiasm for us is rather touching, even if it does leave one's fur a bit . . . sticky.
We are heartened that you can say our names better and better and that you know that we are CAT and DOG with NAMES versus a entire species of Sit-Sit (heaven help us) and P-Y (not such a terrible idea). The Canine is easily appeased when you say "I lub Sit-Sit" and ask "Sit-Sit have hard time? Need Hug?" when she is doing that frantic notice me dance. As I have allowed any number of your small grubby acquaintances to lay on me and use me as a furry piece of play-dough, I require more than "I lub P-Y" to feel fully validated. However, all this benign neglect on the part of the large humans has allowed me to advance my education with endless hours immersed in Austen and Shakespeare, so I am not without gratitude. I do like that you have requested my presence in your sleeping chamber; however, this would be more than an empty gesture if the large ones did not bar my entry.
Despite all this, we had assumed that things were on an upswing. Clearly our optimism was misplaced. Things have taken a dire turn for the worst. As if we could possibly get any more unappreciated, you have tossed us over in favor of . . .
A HORSE!
Ye gods, the HORRORS. Several weeks ago, you came back from an outing (pet-less of course) talking about "HOR! HOR! HOR!" We assumed you meant that disgustingly fertile tabby down the street and moved on with our lives. However, when you started requesting "I RIDE HOR!!!" we knew the Apocalypse was near. You wanted a pony, and your humans are just the sort of weak-willed impulsive imbeciles to comply. After all, when you decided that you loved the carousel as part of HOR MANIA 2009, the large round human told He Who Shall Be Obeyed and that very evening, you were escorted for a special HOR outing wherein you got to ride the HOR several times in a row. Indulgent parents indeed.
We began to fear that an actual equine specimen might arrive in our midst. We discussed possible hay disruption tactics and saddle tampering operations. Stockpiles were laid in advance of a HOR of a Winter. Your HOR grew to mythical proportions. "Only one cookie for Tavy!" "O-Tay. Cookie HOR?" "Where's your belly button?" "HOR have button?" "HOR eat RYE-CHEX?" "HOR have Mama?"
So when your joyous holiday arrived (you will note that neither of US has a footnote in a day-planner let alone what appears to be a month long orgy of "PRIZE! Happy day? HAPPY DAY!" for you. No we are not bitter), we were dismayed but not surprised when discussions of horse trading occupied the large humans. Perhaps it would be a friendly specimen, preferably one with an affinity for cats. Perhaps it would be a horse whisperer and could tame my loyal canine fool. One could dream.
The large human was dispatched to the south. That-which-conveys-us-to-the-vet was cleaned out. . Perhaps a pygmy horse was located?
No, this was much, much worse.
A cold, DEAD, hardened HOR was brought in. It creaks. It bounces unpredictably. It lacks any sort of area for lounging. It sits upon mats that are NOT FOR MINGY. It provides entertainment for still more of your little friends. "YOLA ride HOR? YOLA mama ride HOR?" You give it kisses. You attempt to feed it choice morsels of food. You cover it with blankets. Where's OUR blanket? You request its presence in other rooms.
And, you ask for "REEL HOR! EAT HAY!" Oh, heaven help us. Are there MORE HOR in our future?
This. Must. Stop.
You are a cat human. You are (regrettably) a dog human. It is acceptable that you have all those pillow-like animal facsimiles that are NOT FOR MINGY. It is tolerable that you are obsessed with a bear, but he is just a little bear, and the round human has made it clear that you will NOT be getting a bear. At least she does have A limit, even she allows you milk with HONNNEEE as a conciliation prize.
You are not some common cow wrangler. Annie Oakley you are not (Calamity Jane perhaps. Also, see how all that literature time has paid off?) You will NOT get REEL HOR. You will ban the lifeless HOR at once. You will drop your imaginary HOR friend. "HOR do it!" is not an acceptable excuse.
NO MORE HOR!
Signed,
Your long suffering pets and charter members of Domesticated (at least one of us) Citizens Against HOR.
