Crazy Girls Need Love Too

I have begun to feel like a prison warden lately. A prison warden with wet pants, because my watergun has a leak in it. I’m writing this letter to you, my furbabies, in the hopes that we can come to an agreement that will result in less water fights in the house. I’m not particularly domestically motivated as it is.

Evil JoJo,

I took you in knowing that you had some problems. Your foster Mom told me about the electrocution thing, but you’ve been pretty good about cords since you got here. You shit on my head the night before a funeral (you had worms, but that’s no excuse!) and I still let you live in my house. Most people would say that’s pretty generous.

I can’t have any kind of living plants in the house because you EAT THEM. Not broccoli or carrots or asparagus, but roses and tulips and carnations are just tasty! You eat tampon wrappers, cigarette package cellophane, raw chicken if I turn my back for more than 3 seconds, bugs, stickers, peanut M&Ms and dust balls. Oh, and entire rolls of toilet paper. And then you make a show out of vomiting just when I’ve climbed into bed. You, my little ninja, learned to push my buttons early on.

Also, I totally busted you on top of the fridge the other night eating Meow Mix through the hole you scratched in the bag. Now all extra food has to go into the storage space because there’s no other kitteh-proof space for it. I need all my cabinet room, bitch.

You consistently shovel the sugar out of the sugar bowl and all over the kitchen floor - the counter is not your sandbox! You spend so much time digging around in your litter-igloo in the middle of the night that every time I clean the pan, I am convinced that a tunnel to China will be under there. Why, then, must you tamper with the most precious of my morning rituals - the making of the first cup of coffee? You know you don’t eat until after I’ve gone in the fridge for the half-and-half, why delay me by making me SWEEP first thing in the morning?

This isn’t college, I shouldn’t have to wear flip-flops in my own house to avoid stepping in something nasty or having a sugary-coating on my soles every morning.

Baby Kitty,

You know you are my uncontested favorite, but Princess, we need to talk.

You do not own the bathroom. I’ve never been very shy, I can strip, sneeze and pee in front of almost anyone, but the owl-eyed examination you give me from your chaise sink makes me a tad uncomfortable.

I’d also like to remind you that I am allowed to close the door while attending to my toiletries. You must choose to be either inside or outside of the bathroom before I get into the shower. There is no changing your mind halfway through, so spend some time shedding on the towels and please stop ramming the door with your HEAD when it’s locked. I can’t afford a vet bill because you gave yourself a concussion when you heard the toilet flush and realized you weren’t there to witness it, and I’m also not getting out of the shower to open the door because the steam has offended your delicate sensibilities.

I know you’re beautiful, you know you’re beautiful, everyone knows you’re the prettiest pussy around, but hairballs of the kind which you leave for me are not cool. On the floor on my side of the bed in the early morning hours? Not cool. In the bathroom in front of the toilet - not cool. Here’s a compromise - you eat your anti-hairball goo and I’ll clean up any hairballs not in major apartment thru-ways.

Also, please learn to tell time. Dinner is served after it is dark outside. If I go into the kitchen at noon to make a sandwich, it does not mean that it is gooshy food time. If I go into the kitchen at 1:30 to get a drink, it is still not gooshy food time. If you need a clock, just follow your sister onto the counter whle she’s doing the sugar bowl thing and you should be able to see it just fine.

But if I could give you one bit of motherly advice, it would be something that I’ve been told many, many times over the years - whining is not attractive, so knock it off.

A quick note to both of you - PACE YOURSELVES! The dry food is ALWAYS out, fat kids. The gooshy food is served at 8am and 7pm. Just because you remember that the dry food is there, doesn’t mean that it’s gone when you go on your next spaced-out trip hunting imaginary bugs. No need to gorge yourself, honestly. We’re not a concentration camp, nor are you Somalian orphans. Also, only dogs eat puke. C’mon now, you’re better than that.

To your credit, you’re both wonderful snugglers and your sweetness warms my heart in the fleeting moments that I get to experience it. You have full run of the house, more food than you could eat in a lifetime and enough fuzzy-jingly-dangly-feathery toys to stock a Petco, so lets all try to get along. I’m fine with you walking on my face at 2am on your shortcut across the bed. I’ve resigned myself to a life covered in cat hair and filled with meering. You have personal perches I made to let you watch the neighborhood goings-on, and as much as I’ve wanted to, I’ve never put you in a sweater. I restrict my pettins to cheeks-and-chin only and am fluent in twitchy-tail. I like to think I’m a pretty good mom.

In consideration of the aforementioned complaints, it is expected that you will amend your behavior and act like ladies from this point forward. I’d really like to stop carrying a gun and I bet you’d enjoy walking through the house without having to shake your paws off.

Love,

Mom