Dear Pets:

I hate you. How have we gotten to the point where you've out numbered us? This is despicable. And what are you? Good for nothing. That's what. Harsh? Sure, but let's talk about it.

Hobbes, you were the kitty I dreamed about my whole life-- my little orange kitten. Except you really aren't very little any more. You're twice as wide as you are tall, and you shed enough for 4 cats. You've smushed down all my couch cushions from sleeping on top of them, and frankly, I'm a little tired of it.

Calvin, we rescued you from a dumpster, and a week later you're eye exploded. Who would want a one-eyed kitty? Probably no one, so we kept you because we couldn't bare to see you put down. Since, you've peed in 3 or 4 specific places in our house, making it so you and Hobbes must both be isolated from the upstairs. You puke a few times a month, occassionally miss the litter box, and terrorize all the other animals. You howl at random times, sounding like death, but for no reason at all.

Ruby, finally we lasted a few weeks without you having any accidents, and then you go and piddle on your Dad's arm. Really? You had to go, and that was the most obvious place. You've chewed my chapsticks, and networking cables, thrown up, and you're more expensive then any other pet we've owned.

All day, you run around and chase eachother. Knocking over my iron, wrecking my workspace, getting stuck in between doors, inside bathrooms, under TV stands. You're too fat to climb under the book case, Calvin. We've established this several times, yet you insist that it's the best place to hide from a ferocious puppy, because I'm always there to yank you out. You eat my food. Can a girl eat a can of tuna around here without 3 animals on her lap? Apparently not. And don't think I'll be swayed by those puppy eyes-- you're not getting my grilled cheese.

You've decided that it's rather convenient that I like crafts involving string. Crochet, sewing, stitching, you're not particular. As long as you can get in just enough swipes to ruin whatever it is I'm working on, you're satisfied. And Hobbes? You drew blood this morning, buddy boy. I know you were going for the ribbon, but you missed. And sunk your perfectly groomed claws right into the palm of my hand. It still hurts, and I'm thinking of throwing the lot of you out.

But then you look at me, and excitedly wipe that big, black, wet nose all over my face. You LOVE me. You climb up onto my lap and fall asleep for 30 minutes. All that cat chasing made you tired!

And you rub your little screwed up, single-eyed face on my shoe affectionately, because geesh, without me, you'd still be under that bookshelf. You owe me one.

And you roll over on your back, because no one gives belly rubs like I do, and you're probably the only cat in the whole world that likes them so much. You sneak a little stretch in there as well because, afterall, sunbathing can be exhausting. The heat takes it right out of you.

And I realize that maybe you aren't so bad after all. You give me someone to talk to all day, someone to snuggle with on demand, and you always know when I'm not feeling well, and come and plop down right on my lap to warm me up. You make our home fun and exciting, you get me outside, and you never hesitate to give kisses and love.

Yes, my house would be cleaner, quieter, more orderly, and easier to work in without you. But my life wouldn't be nearly as joyful, entertaining, or fulfilling.

Like my mom always says, "Who saved Who?"