Tyrone, Mon Cher,
Thank you for commiserating with me about my recent malady. Rest assured I am fine, but it goes without saying I'm languishing around the house for my mommy's benefit. I find if I do the Debra Winger thing from Terms of Endearment, I get a whole lot more attention and lap time. I even turned my delicate mauve nose up at albacore tuna yesterday. It was a huge sacrifice, but on the other hand, it made my mommy crazy. She was convinced I was near death's door. She held me for hours, even covering me with my favorite quilt. I figure I can milk this for at least another two weeks.
As for the Metamucil and pumpkin, Mommy can just forget about that. Do you know she even tried to sprinkle Metamucil on my tuna? First of all, as I mentioned, it's bright orange. Did she think I wouldn't notice? Hey, lady, give me a little credit here. We have reached a détente of sorts: she dutifully puts a discreet helping of pumpkin on my plate and just as dutifully I gingerly eat around it.
Your move does indeed seem absolutely senseless. I certainly think there are legitimate reasons for relocating. I just assumed that your mommy had found a property that included a catnip field, a pond stocked with trout, halibut, and salmon (no catfish, please!), a reptile house filled with salamanders and lizards, and a pen for small free-range rodents. But you didn't mention any of these amenities, so I truly am confused as to the point of this move. What could your mommy have been thinking? By the way, did she pack the Weedwacker, too? Did she really bring that Weapon of Mass Destruction to your new abode? I really think you must consider the possibility that your mommy has some psychotic tendencies that you simply choose to ignore.
You asked for a recommendation for my vet. The man I call Mengele? The man who eats fava beans and enjoys a good chianti? No, I fear he is not to be recommended; he is to be avoided. And if this is not possible - due to persuasive, bullying mommies and dreaded blue carriers - then he is, alas, to be endured. Here's a little tip, however. This angel of death has a beard. I like to swat at it. Back and forth I go. Whack, whack, whack. Sometimes, my delicate little paw "gets caught" in this unsightly facial fuzz, and in an attempt to disengage my paw, I "accidentally" scratch him. Opps!
It beats the heck outta me why your mommy has the good luggage on the floor. Is it, I hope, just a sign of her sloth?
Copyright 2000 by Virginia L. Browne and Linda Hamner
From LETTERS FROM CLEO AND TYRONE
By Virginia L. Browne and Linda Hamner
Reprinted by permission of St. Martin's Press, LLC