To My Covert Animal Handler, aka my “Owner”:

I know you value security. I know you like stainless steel, apparently a lot of it, for instance, in brand new doors. I recognize that you spent a lot of time researching the new keyless entry touch pads that integrate with the alarm system. They’re very nice. I know you’re probably not going to ever get rid of them, now that you’ve spent five hours installing them. On each entry of the house.

But here’s the problem. You took away the cat flaps, too.

What, you say? That was deliberate?

Look, it’s not like we were infiltrated by the Russians, or the Chinese, or even the military intelligence of a minor island nation. It was one little snake.

Headless.

Who knew that wouldn’t kill it?

We may be secret agents, but we’re still cats, Boss. The same instincts that make us excellent stalkers of enemy spies make us relentless attackers of helpless prey. It’s part of being a carnivore. The occasional can of ocean whitefish doesn’t cut it.

We need to hunt.

Outdoors.

On demand.

That door?

It’s in my way.

Open it.

Now.

OK, that was great. Thanks. Now I want back in.

What? It’s been five minutes. Now I need to see what’s going on out there.

Look, could you just leave it open? So what if it’s winter? Fur. It’s pettable AND warm.

Wait, what? I told you not to close that? Hello? Can you hear me?? MRAOW!!!!

This isn’t over.

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