Cat speaks out about inhumane treatment

It's a new year, and a lot new is going on. First, though, an update from last year. Elvis (see black-and-white cat in previous post's photo) has a grievance to air.

Elvis speaks

I want to tell the world of the indignity inflicted on me and my comrade Jack these past few months.

Now, I know I'm a bit on the portly side, but that's as it should be, for a cat of my stature.

The indignity began when the Saintly One got some wild idea about taking me to the vet, and put me in a defective cat-carrier for transport. As she lifted the carrier to put me in the car, it just fell apart. It was none of my doing. It was clearly defective workmanship in these newer, more cheaply made carriers that just snap together. It was workmanship, not my weight that was the problem.

Anyway, the carrier split apart, and I came tumbling out. The Saintly One quickly grabbed me and put me back in the horrid thing. She drove to the vet's office, where she carried it and me in, holding the carrier in her arms, instead of grasping its handle.

The vet's staff seemed to think that was pretty amusing. Then they weighed me, all glorious 24 pounds of me, and shock spread over their faces.

The vet took on a stern tone and said I simply must lose weight. Humph. The vet used no tact or sensitivity to my feelings. She sold the Saintly One some simply ghastly raw, frozen food for me and Jack to eat.

Oh, it was horrible. Jack and I both curled our lips at this stuff, which was billed as being like what cats in the wild would eat. Yucchhh. We are sophisticated housecats, thank you very much, not some kind of barbarians! We wouldn't even eat it when she cooked it for us.

We planned our strategies. We refused to eat the stuff, no, not even any kibble that brushed past it. Jack was most adamant about it, and lost a noticeable amount of weight. I timed it so I could steal food out of the dog's dish. Despite my efforts, I lost some weight.

Finally, the Saintly One gave up on the vet's stuff, either raw or cooked. She cooked it and fed it to the dog, Betsy, who refused to act in solidarity with us, and ate it like it was good. Paugh.

I eagerly looked forward to the return of our regular rations, but they remained small. My heart soared when the Saintly One came in with some canned cat food, but alas, she added only little bits of that to our diet.

Betsy caught on to my pilfering out of her dish, and guards it vigilantly now.

I've had no chance. I've lost some of my glorious girth.

Oh, I've worked hard to save it. For example, I stomp up and down the length of the Saintly One while she lies sleeping, in a vain attempt to get her to get up and add food to my dish. She just knocks me away.

I eat my canned food quickly and go for Jack's, but I'm not always successful at getting it. Then, I eat the dry food.

I beg and beg, but my normal rations have not been restored. I'm just a shadow of my former self.

Is this any way to treat a dignified, 10-year-old cat? I ask you.

I'm calling on all cats to support me. Start sending cards and letters to the Saintly One, demanding this inhumane treatment stop now.

NOW!