letter to Orson
Please stop biting us. We feed you. We pet you. We adopted you. We like you. In fact, we love you.
Except when you bite us. When you bite us, we kinda regret adopting you. And we don't want to feel like that.
The puncture wounds in my left arm, from the incident last week, are finally healed. Although the scratches haven't completely. And the new scratch on my finger is going to take a couple days.
Tell you what, we'll make you a deal. We'll keep feeding you, and you stop biting us.
Also, please stop stalking us when you're in an angry mood. Please stop swiping at us when we walk by. We pay the rent.
In fact, what's up with those violent mood swings anyway? One minute you're all lovey-dovey — pet me! pet me! — and the next minute you lash out like a vampire who smells blood. All we did was pet you like you wanted.
And the playing thing. You have to understand that, "playing" with your nails out means that we end up not wanting to play with you. Playing isn't a blood sport.
Oh, and please stop shedding. Okay, maybe that one's a bit unrealistic. But perhaps you can shed less?
How about this — you work on the not biting and the not slashing and the not drawing blood parts, and we'll deal with the shedding. Deal?
Mark and Velma
(the ones who feed you)