What are you dealing with right now? : Fur-balls and litter trays.
My story: I'm too embarrassed to discuss my servitude with my family.
Pour it all out. Everything. You may even feel better for it...
Where do I start? When did the innocent desire to indulge the comforts of my beloved Miffy coalesce into a nightmare of hideous day-to-day enslavement? If only I knew where it started, perhaps I could discover a way of reversing the descent into hell that followed the exciting day I first rescued Miffy from the pet home. I tell you that I have tried, my friend. Oh, how I have tried!
They say Mark Twain was a cat-lover. He was an impressive guy, no question about that. I just wonder if he would have been greater still - maybe even a God, had he not fallen under the spell of these evil little creatures. It's not natural, I tell you, and I've posted a picture of Mark Twain under the domination of a satanic member of that very dangerous species so you can see for yourself the terrible condition they inflict on their zombie slaves. Look closely at the picture, and you'll notice the sagging shoulders, Mr Twain's body hunched forward under the sheer weight of helplessness as he paces to the tune of his oppressor.
I've tried to talk about it but my family are all on Miffy's side. Even my closest friends have failed to notice my failure to show up at coffee shops and cafe's. I'm simply too busy catering to the every whim of that evil Miffy. Sometimes at night, when Miffy is asleep, and I am waiting attentively beside her queen size bed, I dream about what my life could have been. On particularly bad nights, when the kitty tray is more disgusting than usual, I fantasize on ways to end my horror.
And so I will return to my life of enslavement - BUT I am posting this message because if it helps even one catlover to see the light before it is too late then I have done my job, and fulfilled my destiny in the only way that a catlover can. Because nothing can save me now.