The Cat at the Foot of the Bed

Poor kitty. He cannot use the remote control. He cannot blog. He cannot listen to podcasts. He cannot Tweet. He can remember the days when his brother and sister leaped and cavorted while he hid under the bed.

Poor, poor kitty at the foot of the bed.

Poor kitty. He cannot use the grill. He cannot play with puzzles. He cannot open windows. He cannot draw. He can remember the days when there were no children, only cats, and he hid under the bed.

Poor, poor kitty at the foot of the bed.

Poor kitty. He cannot use the toilet. He cannot shop online. He cannot audition for plays. He cannot ride a bike. He can remember the days when there were no insulin needles, and he was fat and he hid under the bed.

Poor, poor kitty at the foot of the bed.

Poor kitty. He is old now. He is not fat. He thinks kids are a necessary evil, and he no longer hides under the bed. He misses his brother. He misses his sister. He does not miss living under the bed.

Poor, poor kitty at the foot of the bed. Stop scratching at the door in the middle of the night or you are going to wake up the kids. Shut up. Seriously. I can’t believe you’re 14 years old and you still don’t know how to cover your poo in the litter box. You have to scratch the litter, not the wall, or else nothing happens. Dude.

You’re so dumb.

Poor, poor kitty at the foot of the bed. Breathe more deeply, so I can see it, and I know you’re alright.