Dear Cats,
You have been created by the Good Lord and bred since the dawn of pets for a single purpose: pest control. That is your job—nay, your career—nay, your Raison d'être. That's why you evolved with claws and sharp teeth. That's why you smell better than me, you see in the dark, you're quick and agile, you have amazing reflexes and balance. You are a born, bred, instinctual hunter.
You are also instinctually and naturally annoying. You barf on my floor. You meow constantly. You scratch things that are worth more to me than you are, like my furniture and my face.
To my own surprise, I would have forgiven you all your flaws if, for once, you had called your natural killing abilities into service last night when I saw a mouse running across my wife's pillow. I immediately threw the two of you in the bedroom with the mouse, and even pointed it out to you, but apparently millions of years of evolution and breeding have been undone in the two years you've been chilling in my apartment. You didn't hunt it, you didn't kill it, you didn't present its mangled body to us as a peace offering after all we've put up with from you two.
Have you achieved some zen-like higher consciousness that forbids you from indulging your natural impulses to kill mice? Because that's what it looked like. You just did your thing, and let the mouse do his thing. Everyone got along great—a picture of diversity and tolerance when it should have been a bloody fangfest.
Eff you, liberal cats. Kill here! Kill now!
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