Fuzzy Freak of Nature Wilbur,
It’s been six years since I found you mewing and looking like a shivering cotton ball in our unfinished basement.
You were so tiny.
Jonathan didn’t want to keep you, but he knew I felt so horrible that we couldn’t get to your other siblings in time to save them that he relented.
He rolled his eyes when I named you “Wilbur” even though you are a girl. What can I say? It totally fits.
He gets upset with the vast amounts of cat hair he finds in our open computer cases. (I have no idea how this happens. Ehem.)
Not that Jon is all alone in his frustrations with you.
I mean, do you really HAVE to be in the 5% of the cat population that still goes into heat regularly despite being fixed?
I really could live without being woken up at 3 am by your copious amounts of grody animal love that you feel inclined to practice right outside my bedroom window.
My lovely collection of shoes that Jonathan throws at you in those moments don’t really care for your sexual exploits either. I tried to tell them that I told Jon to “Fight the damn cliche” to no avail. I also asked why he had to throw MY shoes at you, but he just said that you were MY cat.
Let’s face it, you are a total whore.
The carpet was so sick of getting raped that we had to have it cleaned and sent to a crisis center.
Despite being a very slutty kitty, I am still rather fond of you.
I even got you customized bling:
Every ho-cat should have a “Scarlett Letter Collar”, don’t you think??
Even with all the whoring, raping, peeing, scratching, cat hair and having my footwear laying in random places in my yard, I’m still glad you wandered into my basement, Wilbur.
I think you’re pretty awesome.
The lady that remembers to let you outside to pee sometimes.
Now that I have written a lovely letter to you, will you please eat the freaking food in your dish WITHOUT HAVING TO HAVE ME KICK IT FIRST????