We Must Be Anti-Catists
Mow-ooooowww-ow-ow-ow. And then, for added effect, Mew.
That was our cat, Oskar. His life has been made barely endurable by humans, we of the opposable thumbs and the can openers and the pistachio nuts that we are too evil to share.
What is he crying about this time? I asked the Palinode.
I think he's still going on about accessibility issues for those with severe height and thumblessness issues. Wasn't he blabbering about leading a protest at the humane society? I said.
That was last week.
Ow! Owww-ooow-ooow-ow. Oskar leaves off the initial M when the point he is making is of a very serious nature.
Oh, no, the Palinode said.
What? I asked.
He's still upset that we won't buy him that Hoobastank album he wants so bad.
Oh, ow-mow-moooooowww. Ooooooowwwww.
I tried to explain to him that because American post-grunge influenced such irritating bands as Nickelback we could not in good conscience allow it into our household, but he claimed that it is his right to listen to whatever music he wants no matter what our tastes are, said the Palinode.
Mew. Oh, mew. Oooooooooowwww. Ow-ow-ow-oooooowwww.
Oh, crap. I said.
What? asked the Palinode.
He's totally going to report us to the humane society for infringing on his rights this time. I think it's Hoobastank or he tries to divorce us in court.
Oskar: a two-and-a-half year old cat who manages to be the whiniest fifteen-year-old we never gave birth to.
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