Pugsley the Cat here. You foolishly left your laptop open while taking a shower (and who do you think you are, anyway? Too good to lick yourself all over like the rest of us?) which has allowed me this opportunity to get a few things off my chest.
Let me remind you that I am gracious enough to let you live in this house with me. I don't even charge rent. All I ask for in return is complete run of the house, food on demand, and the understanding that if there's a lap available, it's my God-given right to jump on it. Which brings me to Abuse #1: How dare you insist on shutting the bathroom door every time you use it, even though you know darn well that you're denying me a perfectly good lap to jump on whenever you sit on the toilet? The nerve! No matter how loudly I meow at the door and swat my paw underneath it to remind you that I'm supposed to be in there with you, you ignore me. This is exactly the reason why I've been chewing on all of the electrical cords in the house--frustration at being locked out of the bathroom. It's your fault, really.
Second on the list is the stupid pet names. I'm getting pretty tired of being called "puddin' face" or "fuzzy britches" when you come home. As in "Get out from under my feet, fuzzy britches!" I find it demeaning and rude. My name is Pugsley, thank you very much, and I will walk wherever I please. If you don't like it, go move in with a dog person. Like your friend Kathy. You think I can't smell her dog on your pants leg every time you come home from visiting her? I bet you even pet that dog, too. I guess what my mother told me is true: once a cheater, always a cheater.
I also didn't appreciate your reaction the first time my sister, Wednesday, went into heat. She's the one who came on to me. Sure, hump your sister just once, and it's off to the vet for both of you! It's going to take a few more cans of tuna before I forgive you for that very unpleasant visit.
Just a side note: when in bed, I prefer to jump on the purple fleece blanket. Please stop using the Holstein-print microfiber blanket. It itches my whiskers.
I would also like to address the issue of television. Just because I don't have opposable thumbs, it seems like you don't think I should have any say in what we watch on TV at night. Quite frankly, I'm a little tired of Survivor and The Walking Dead. Both of these shows are extremely prejudicial against cats. How can you possibly have a whole show about life after the zombie apocalypse without mentioning once how cats will ultimately save the day with a zombie-crippling bout of cat scratch fever? Not one person on your stupid show has even referred to that. Plus, if you mention one more time how cool it was to meet Richard Hatch, I'm going to vomit into your slippers. Your taste in television sucks. Would it kill you to throw on Shark Week once in a while?
Finally, if I am staring at you with wide eyes and mewling softly while nibbling on your eyelid, would it be too much to ask that you maybe pet me for an hour? Honestly, I just want to be loved. How am I supposed to know that it's 2:30 in the morning? I really feel that your threat to feed me to the coyotes was unnecessary. I want you to remember this when you discover that I've been piddling behind the couch for months now.
Well, I can hear you downstairs on the phone telling your mother about meeting your favorite Survivor, so it's time for me to go barf up a hairball into your slippers. You were warned.