humans, your poll results are in

...and they ain't good. 100% of household orange cats surveyed cite critical flaws in governance of pets. Your approval ratings have dropped to a new low. Humans, I'll level with you. I've been your cat for .. what, four years? My arguments must hold some weight with you. And I argue that things aren't great.

Firstly. What's with that puddle of skin you insist on calling a 'dog'? That's no dog, believe me. 'Rudimentary drool-bot' I might believe, but never 'dog.'

I have the occasional itch for a fight; you may have noticed. When the urge rises within me I lie in the grass and twitch my tail in front of it. Egging it on, you see. But instead of pouncing, as any real dog would, what does the beast do? It simply runs jerky circles about me, making that ridiculous pained yelp it must think is a bark. I'd have pity on the brainless lump, had I been born with a pity. Honestly, I'd simply put the thing out of its misery and eat it--except I'm afraid I'd choke on all the idiocy.

The savage doesn't even bury its poo. (Nor, one hypothesizes, the remains of the neighbor children. I digress.)

And another thing. I couldn't help but notice you gave the aforementioned beef-loaf the right to freely enter the house. Or rather, I should say, my house. For so it was, once long ago, in that bright brief shining moment before either the idiot cat or the idiot dog. And your acquisition of both idiot animals pushed me further and further from my rightful domain. Humans, listen. I don't even need run of the entire house. There are rooms downstairs that are already so saturated with my divine feline liquids that to coat them further would be not just a waste, but potentially a sacrilege as well. I would be perfectly happy with the humble role of, say, benevolent supreme dictator for life nine lives of the living room and kitchen and bedrooms. Surely even two humans as slow of wit as you can see the wisdom of living under my protection rather than under my ire, yes?

And finally, we need to discuss the simpleton whose unfortunate genome tarnishes the name of 'cat.' My loathing of him is known to you. Here is my final offer: if you will take him to the pound, I will give you three hairballs (grass included), six bird carcasses, and the mutilated body of (either) one garden snake (or) one mouse. Take it or leave it.

Do us both a favor. Submit to my reasonable demands, lest I slice through the screen door, open your bellies in your sleep, and incubate my dark brood within your torsos.

Oh! One more. I require the tuna that comes in the cans with the light spring water.

Luhh..
llluuhhuuh..
ahem
lvuuhvhhhh..
Oh, piss it.

Sincerely,
Trollop