Quite a few gave permission to post their entries. I’ll try to get at least one per day up in the order received. Here’s a terrific entry by Chris Solaas.
Pretty sure this particular feline lives at my house.
(You guys are hysterical~!)
Listen carefully, servant. I’m a male, understand? This sissy prissy blather you’ve been spouting at me since I was incarcerated in your dump you call a home has finally pushed me over the edge. I admit it, I’ve snapped, as if you couldn’t tell from the ropes tying you to that chair and the maniacal look in my eyes.
I may be a long-hair but that doesn’t mean I like that trash you call music coming out of your stereo. If you wish to bang your head to heavy metal music, please use the brick wall out back. That way you’ll keep the blood off the carpet. From now on, it will be classical, preferably Italian Opera. It’s better when I don’t understand what drivel they’re screaming. Besides, the look of suffering on your face will be worth it.
You know, the name of my breed is Himalayan. Those snow-capped mountains where grass doesn’t grow? Just looking at this fur coat I wear should clue you in that 78 degrees is unacceptable. Cats don’t sweat, and I prefer not to pant. Dogs do that. It’s disgusting. I’ve taken the liberty of turning the thermostat down to 65. Leave it there if you value your life.
My face is not ridiculous. You are not to laugh at it, even if your second-rate intellect considers it ‘smashed’. I do not chase parked cars. That’s an insulting reference to another dog trait. Furthermore, I am not constantly mad at something you said or did; I simply look this way because of my breed. No, wait, strike that. I AM constantly mad at something you did. It has to do with how you call me.
Do you think I’m going to come running when you call? Dogs do that. Cats are above such nonsense. ‘Kitty kitty kitty’ spoken in some inane high-pitched squeak does not motivate me to run towards you. It motivates me to run away. Far away. If I come during these times of your soprano soliloquies, it’s merely to shut. you. up. and, possibly, to investigate whether your squeals have to do with food. Not that what you usually provide could be termed so.
Two words, worm: Tuna Fish. Have you never heard of it? No, I don’t want the juice, or rather, the water, it was packed in. I’m a carnivore. I prefer meat to the slightest hint of meat. Having water meat once touched is nothing but torture and I will report you to the SPCA. And yes, I know their number. Mylittermate is on their board of directors.
The main reason you’re here rather than sent out with the trash is that I haven’t figured out how to use the can opener. Please locate the instruction manual and leave it open for me.
A word about litter boxes. Litter is something you pick up and put in the trash. I refuse to pick that up. If you cannot scoop my litter box then deliver a truckload of sand and fill the garage with that. It will take me a while to use that up. And, no, I don’t care where you will park your car.
The reason I sprayed your briefcase is to express my dissatisfaction at the garbage you write. It was an honest comment. There was no cause to neuter me. If it wasn’t for the real mission, you would have been toast.
And that leads me to my final point. I’m here on a mission, and you are going to help me. It’s finally time to reveal it to you. You see, as a bestselling writer, Mister Turner, you have the ear of a large number of your species. Backward as it may be, your species has the occasional desire to care for my species. Or perhaps serve my species. Some of you are good at it; many of you just stink. For the ones that stink, yourself included, all that is hopefully required is a bit of education.
Therefore, you are going to write a series of books on how to actually care for and serve the cat kingdom. Or, rather, I’m going to write them. All you have to do is sign your name to them and send them off to your publisher. Don’t tell me how unethical that is. I’ve heard the term ‘ghost writer’ before.
Before you actually are allowed to crawl out of those ropes though, slave, you’re going to need to nod your head and agree to these terms. Really? Well then, when I untie you, let’s start with a trip to the grocery store. For tuna fish. You can buy yourself something if you wish, too.
Chris Solaas lives in a loving madhouse – four kids, three cats, a gecko named Gex, and a snow white monster dog that eats trees.
He has worked in children’s ministries as an Awana Commander and Boy Scout leader for the past 15 years.
He has written 120 Christian songs since 2006, and is currently working on his fourth manuscript in his current Christian fantasy epic, A Prince of Lynvia.