Memo to Kitty

When we first saw you it was love at first sight. You were such a playful little cat– a happy guy. The sparkle in your eye, it seemed, was magical – full of delightful curiosity and spunk. Now that I know you a little better, it seems we mistook the glow of your evil, evil soul for something pleasant. But that’s how Satan works, isn’t it?

Ever since you came on the scene, our lives have progressively diminished in quality. The first few days when you would attack things we thought it was cute. When you’d rip and tear across the living room we mistakenly assumed you could distinguish the carpet from our faces at 3am. The one morning when Steven woke up with you attached to his lip, I’ll admit – I found it a little amusing. But then when you decided to have an epileptic fit on my face you drew a distinct line in the sand. You sir, are now the enemy.

Last count I had 37 bloody gashes all over my body. I can see how playing with a laser light is not as satisfying as ripping real flesh from the bone. Equally satisfying will be ripping your nails from your body and having your balls lopped off. Just remember that the next time you scale my bare leg as I get out of the shower, defenseless with soap in my eyes.

Steven and I are kind people. Well. We were. Recently we’ve delighted in the back and forth banter regarding how we might torture you. When I spanked you the other day he laughed hysterically. It’s as if we’ve found common ground in wanting to cause you much deserved bodily injury. Really I should thank you because you’ve caused us to bond in ways I didn’t think we would. For instance, the other day when we saw the corpse of a dead feline on the road he looked at me and I knew exactly what he was thinking; that perhaps we should let you outside to play. However, it probably wouldn’t end that way for you. No, instead you’d make the 5 o’clock news for robbing a bank and demanding a jet in exchange for hostages.

Have you wondered why we still don’t have a name for you? It’s because we can’t speak luciferian. Damien, Adolph, and Hannibal seem too innocent and pure for the likes of you. I knew we were going to have a problem naming you when I came home and found you roasting a mouse while chanting the Enochian keys. If I could pronounce Yeiuohfjgbjb, that’s what I would call you. Translated it means eviler than evil.

We are onto you. The sleep deprivation, the open wounds, the destruction of property; it is all designed to induce a weakened state of consciousness where we don’t notice you looting our souls. But you, oh nameless one; make no mistake – I’m not going down like that. If I have to call in an exorcist, a priest, or Chuck Norris, I can assure you we will be victoreous.

In summary, we kind of fucking hate you. However, because we are reasonable, we’re going to give you a little time to grow out of this demonic state and return to Jesus. If, in the time allotted, you do not shape up, we will totally break the animal cruelty laws Texas has established for your protection. So it’s time to make a choice: eternal hell or two forgiving morons with a laser toy. It’s your call.