This is Mac. Listen, you guys gotta get me outta here. This ain't no place for a self-respecting, hi-class, cat-chasing mutt like me. I tell you, the way they treat these cats around here is gonna give me diabetes. I mean, it's "Mommy's little sweetums" here and "Daddy's little sugar pie" there until the only thing keeps me from gagging is trying to choose which toe to stick down my throat.
That ain't all. Naw, huh-uh. They not only refer to me as "lard-ass" and "pudge," making fun of my Rubenesque figure, they get snide. Just this morning Mommy gathered a double armload of school papers and headed upstairs with them. I was carefully watching from below, wagging my tail to show I, too, was part of the family (it ain't much, but it's all I got to work with, you know?) when Poppa yelled out, "Take the arfandwoofer with you," causing Momma to fall flat on her face on the stairs and slide halfway back down. I mean, I coulda been hurt if she'ld fallen on top of me.
And the cats! Don't even talk about cats to me. I know 'em from the back! Cherokee ignores me, Samantha swats me crosseyed everytime I try to play with her, and Sasha scares the bejeebers out of me. I'll be all alone in the kitchen, not a cat in sight, but let me take one bite of kibble, and I get swarmed. They can't stand for me to get something to eat that they aren't getting. They not only crowd me out of my dish, it's WWIII if I so much as sniff their crummy cat food. As if I'd eat that. . .that. . .stuff. It smells like a goat ate a long-expired fish, then threw up in their dish. I don't know how they can eat that crap. What's really odd is that they go off and leave some really delicious stuff in their tray under the stairs. You'd think they'd rather eat that; I do. Cats. Go figure.
That's not all! Every little while Momma and Poppa throw me out into the yard, rain or shine, too hot or too cold, sometimes so windy it almost blows me over the fence, while those pampered cats get to stay inside and sleep all day. Nobody rousts them out in all kinds of weather. And to top it off, those misbegotten flea farms watch me through the window and smirk. I tell you, it makes me want to have a cat for breakfast.
Tell you what, if one of you nice, sweet, beautiful, charming ladies rescues me from this bunch, I'll let you read my private diary, the one that lists all the things they do around here. You gotta see it to believe it.