Hey Max, my life is ruined. They added a kitten to the household and it’s really ticked me off. He’s always in my grill. The peeple took him to the stabby place to get fixed, but when he got home he was the same old irritating kitten–his irritatingness had obviously not been fixed. Can I move in with you?
Dood, don’t take this the wrong way, but AH HAIL NAW! I already have a Buddah here and another kitty, even one clearly as awesome as you, would drive me right over the edge and I’m already teetering there BECAUSE I HAVE A BUDDAH. Last night, he chased me down the hall just because I blinked. That’s all it takes. A frickin’ BLINK. I absolutely would not survive another furry creature in the house.
And…if I can survive all these years with him, you can survive with the kitten. And it could be worse—That Damned Dog Butters and his sister Lady just got TWO kittens. I bet they didn’t see that coming. Imagine two of the little furry pains all up in your stuff. AT THE SAME TIME.
I wanna feel sorry for them, but the idea that two dogs now have to deal with two kittens kinda invokes a bit of Schadenfreude and I giggle a bit when I think about it.
Just sit on yours a lot. Slap him down, and plant your butt on him. He’ll learn.
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Max. I have been put on a diet. The food’s okay but there’s not much of it, and I’m starving all the time. How can I get this torture to end????
Oh, man, I feel you. When I was at my heaviest, the d-word was bandied around, and dood, let me tell you, I was NOT happy about it. I mean, it’s right there in the word: DIEt. DIE. It’s mean and totally uncalled for.
You just have to wear them down. Wail while standing near your dish—I know it’s demeaning, but it’s necessary. Follow them around, begging for more. At night, if you’re allowed in the room, stand at the foot of the bed and howl like someone bit you right on the goodies. If you’re outside the room, knock on the door. BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG. If you can’t knock (it’s an acquired skill) just throw your entire body weight against it. Take a running start if needed.
Make yourself the biggest nuisance possible, and they’ll cave. They always do. People can’t stand hearing that poor pitiful wail, and eventually they’ll do anything to stop it. And by anything, I mean they’ll feed you.
Silence is golden, and the currency is something dead and delicious.
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All right Max, now you’re 18, have you gained any wisdom from your new status as a really old fart?
Only affirmations of expectations. Like, you youngsters are annoying and GET OFF MY LAWN. Also, old men get what they want, even if it means the people have to open 3 or 4 cans until they find the one I wanted.
Now, they used to do that anyway, but it annoyed them then. Now it’s like, “Ohhhhh you need to eat, here, I’ll get something else.” And I’m sitting there thinking, dance for me monkey, dance. And dance they do…
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