Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal

This damn cat Hallie, sometimes I wonder whether she knows she's a cat. Cats are supposed to stay inside, where they can bother their owners. But Hallie, she's always trying to run outside. Probably because she knows we'll have to chase after her, and anything that could be annoying to us is catnip for her.

Countless times upon returning home, I've opened our front door to find Hallie waiting right by the entrance so she can scurry on out. What are you going to do outside, Hallie? Where are you going to find food? Where are you going to find water? Where are you going to find other people to scratch? Well that probably wouldn't be too hard. But not all of them will be as tolerant as we are.

One time Haldini snuck out like a ninja and we didn't know she was outside for four hours, in the rain! Then when Nick found her she came in all dirty and wet. Four hours! What a dumb cat.

I Just Want to Eat My Dinner Alone

This damn cat Hallie thinks she owns the place, but she doesn't even pay rent, much less chip in for groceries. She's even a fugitive in our community, because technically she was supposed to pay a $400 fee for living in our house, but she skirted it. Cheap cat.

So it's no surprise that the cat tries to mooch off of us whenever she can. Mostly when I'm eating dinner. Oh, Hallie thinks she gets to eat my spaghetti. Oh, Hallie thinks she gets to nip at my chips. Oh, Hallie thinks she can lick my cheddar cheese cubes and rub her nasty nose all over my glass of store-brand cola. Did you pay the 79 cents for that store-brand cola, Hallie? No. You didn't.

Hallie knows no bounds physically, so no matter where I put my food, she can get to it. She jumps on the coffee table from the floor. Then she uses my leg as a stepping stone to the corner table, where I've moved my food from the coffee table. Then she flies down to the floor and runs around again and starts the whole process over, making my dinner part meal and part calisthenics for both of us.

Next time, I'm having Hallie for dinner.

Oh You Get to Eat Whatever You Want I Guess

This damn cat Hallie isn't trained at all, even by the standards you would expect of a homeless, feral kitten sputtering helplessly in a garbage can. Like most pets, Hallie is given one thing to eat: pet food. But unlike most pets, Hallie has decided to take matters into her own paws when it comes to meal times.

Hallie's master Nick, who is unwilling or unable (or both) to teach her the proper ways becoming of a feline, left the home for two days over Thanksgiving. That means that I had to feed Hallie, because she needs food every day. So I did. I gave her a heaping bowl full of pellets or whatever the first day Nick was gone -- more than enough food to feed her, let alone a normal, trained cat. Hallie apparently wasn't happy with that and, once I left, figured out where her heavily medicated treats were -- in the cabinet below the sink -- and went for it.

I don't think Hallie has seen "The Italian Job" or "Blue Crush" (or maybe it's not "Blue Crush" but whatever that Martin Lawrence movie is where he hides the diamond in the police station -- "Blue Streak" maybe), or any other movies about heists. But she could have fooled me! I came home the next day to find the cabinet door being propped open by the bag of treats, which by the way had a goddamn rip through the middle of it that strongly resembled the mark of an untrained claw, and oh yeah there were catnip treats everywhere all over the floor. Did I mention that Hallie had vomited, again, all over the floor downstairs? Probably because of the treats, you damn cat!