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 Good evening. As your cat, some remittance is in order for the suffering you have inflicted upon me during your time away. As per duly noted in the arrival/departure log, you were absent for seventy-nine hours, thirty-three minutes, and sixteen seconds. During this period of time, I was under the impression you had forsaken me and left me with this peasant, whom you call Auntie Janice.
 Let me enumerate the multiple flaws of Janice, that mordant, witless buffoon. First, she neglected to complete the elementary routines that hold this house together: my petting at 6:45 am, my feeding at 9 am, the window opening at 9:15 am, the cleaning of my defecation at 9:16 am, my comfort and consolation at noon, my other petting at 5:45 pm, my third brief petting at 8 pm, and my special treat at 10 pm. Without them, all becomes chaos; law and order rupture. Do you not understand this?  
 Secondly, Janice did not perform the correct procedure as regards my water glass. She simply filled it with water. Filled it with water. Fool! Ignoramus! Clown! Does she not understand the essential elements of placing liquid into a container? Two times the glass is filled and then poured out. The third time, the glass should be filled three-quarters full with water at a temperature between 58.4 and 61.3 degrees Fahrenheit and then placed on my preferred green mat that shall not nor will ever be washed.
 Thirdly, she smells. And I will not stand for it.
 To abandon me in the company of this cretin is nigh inexcusable. You! The servant who has been charged with taking care of me, Queen Beruthiel, goddess of wisdom and Whiskas cat treats, ruler of the five household realms of bathroom, kitchen, living room, bedroom, and hallway closet, and protector of those same realms from the vacuum cleaner, the strange noise from the furnace, and my nemesis Oscar who comes by the back door on Tuesdays. How I despise him.
 So, deficient caretaker, I will cry out until the hours of my suffering equal the hours of yours. The great wrongdoing of your desertion shall be written in the annals of history, although you may know them as the far corner in the living room.
 You might contact the balding vet whom I will never forgive or forget. “She’s pissing everywhere,” you’ll say in vexation. “What’s wrong with her?” Wrong with me? With me?! Your insolence would amuse me should it not be so offensive.
 And what is this I hear about a new mate in your life? Was this approved? Did you complete form 59-C “Request for Supplementary Persons in Household,” or send a motion with the correct postage to P.O. Box 89? No—though I would not know if you did, seeing as “my outside privileges have been revoked.” Impudent fool. If you want governmental spies, who also function as tasty treats, in your territory, that is your business but as queen I must provide for my people. And I say again: That blue bird had it coming.
 Instead we have this “Roger” in the household, my domain, the one I have marked on too many occasions to count. I will express my disapproval by refusing to acknowledge Roger’s presence or conversely, biting him when he sits on the blue chair by the heater, i.e. my throne.  
 And no, it won’t take time for us to “get used to each other.” There would not be enough time should the very fabric of reality be torn, and I was left with him, and he had all the cat treats in the world. You should not trust Roger. He smells of treachery and the dog down the street.
 I trust our relations will normalize once you have left him and returned to me, your trusted queen. Do note that I enjoy your company when you are warm and stationary and gently scratching behind my ears. It is these times when I realize you are a tolerable servant, simply misguided and in need of constant correction.
 And as wise ruler, I would be remiss should I not punish you for your inadequacies. So, if you would excuse me, I must now expel my dinner in the middle of the living room carpet. And yes, I do know the Campbells are coming over for dinner in a few minutes. Ta ta for now.

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