An Apology Letter from Your Cat

I, Professor Friskers, have a number of things to get off my chest, dear human Feeder.

Dear Feeder,

I hope this letter finds you well.

It has recently been brought to my attention that some of my behavior over the course of our time together has been less than exemplary. I feel it is remiss of me not to address this.

You’ll understand that recognition of these actions is in no way a LEGAL acceptance of guilt, and is inadmissible in any court. It is merely a missive to set the record straight. 

Firstly, let me explain the whole bird incident. You and I are very different creatures, Feeder. To me, that bird represented a gift: a fine gift, an extraordinary gift. A gift for you from me. A token, albeit a bloody one, of my sincere gratitude.

You discarded the last gift I caught you, so now you only get store-bought gifts. 

I thought you would appreciate being surprised with it in your bed and that I had already opened it up for easy access to innards. I had no idea your new female companion had such an attachment to it, so I can only suggest that, in the future, she should secure her vulnerable, delicious pets more durably. Though, from what I understand, she will not be troubling us again. In my opinion, you had a lucky break. A bird? As a pet? There is something very wrong there.

I think many of the other problems that have arisen between us are down to our divergent senses of humor. While you enjoy the comic stylings of Rob Schneider and Mike and Molly, my funny bone is considerably more sophisticated. And so while you don’t recognize the humor attached to leaping onto your lap, claws extended and screeching wildly while you watch Friday the 13^th Part 5 with a date, I’m afraid that I do.

In retrospect, my actions during your movie date night were reprehensible. 

I had no idea your reaction would be that extreme, and I obviously extend my sympathies to the young lady who suffered the nacho cheese burns. Perhaps if you’d stuck to the low-fat diet that had been recommended, we wouldn’t be in this mess. But, as the sages state, comedy is never universal. Perhaps one day you will catch up with me and understand my jokes and japes. I pray that day comes soon.

Now I know you feel that those mucus-matted balls of hair that I regurgitate are quite unpleasant. You are not alone in this. We all do; you are not special. I would just like to point out that this is a MEDICAL condition.

If you carried a similar sort of affliction -- for instance, if you had a lacerated shin (for which I apologize; it was a case of mistaken identity) or a heavily damaged scalp (again, I’m sorry; from that angle your new haircut did resemble a small mammal), I would not judge.

I can't help it if I have to produce hairballs occasionally. 

It just so happens that I needed to cough up this unfortunate by-product of illness, right at the moment I was passing your cereal bowl, shoes, and your former fiancée's neck, hair, and quiche. (How is Linda, by the by? Are you still in touch?) Though I obviously cannot be blamed for this, I do realize it is not conventionally wholesome. 

Finally, I suppose we must rake over the coals of what you only refer to as (rather dramatically in my opinion) "the Incident." I recognise now that it was not a good day and no one emerged from it covered in glory.  All I know is that I was tricked -- TRICKED -- into entering a small meshed box.

Once caged, I’m afraid I entered a highly emotional state. I am not proud of this. But, you will remember that last time I was similarly boxed I was taken to a place where vile things were done to my body. I was never the same again. I could only assume that once that box was reopened, a similar fate awaited me. And so my subsequent violent actions, upon release, were entirely in pre-emptive self-defense. I felt obliged to latch myself onto the nearest available surface. Unfortunately that proved to be your mother’s face. 

I urge you to reconsider the cage option in favor of this. I may not be responsible for my actions. 

How was I supposed to know? I wasn’t even told that you had a mother. I haven’t seen my mother for years and you don’t hear me bleating about it. I know I do constantly make that noise which sounds like bleating, usually in the early hours of the morning into the ear of yourself or anyone sleeping nearby. But that has nothing to do with anything parental.

But I would now like to draw a line under the Incident. I know the rest of that festive season was quite tense and tear-filled. And, in my defense, I was finding particles and skin and flesh under my claws for days afterwards. I don’t know what your mother is made of, but it is really quite adhesive.

And so, in conclusion, for all the terrible, though perfectly justifiable, behavior listed above, and for that whole thing with the litter box/wool cap confusion, I am truly sorry. I hope we can now move on.

Thank you for your time.

Your cat,

Professor Friskers

P.S. That name explains a lot as well.