For the past three weeks, you have been my nemesis. Although only seven weeks old when we arrived in Florida, you instantly knew I wasn't a fan of cats and showed off your big brains by giving me a painful scratch on my wrist.
In the ensuing time we've been trapped together, you've bitten me and taken too much of an interest in my computer cords. I, on the other hand, have spent considerable amounts of time figuring out how to get you to do nothing but sleep.
Yes. Oh! Are you surprised? Do you think I played with you several times a day just because I liked kitteh? No! I wanted to wear you out, to stop you from pawing my toes with your sharp claws. Look at you--you think you look so innocent, crouched with your favorite toy, a bottle cap:
I know better though. I know you prefer getting your claws sunk into flesh, that you pounce on anything within sight, especially those older cats, who, you haven't seemed to realize, don't want to give you the time of day (hint: if they hiss at you, they don't like you).
And don't think that curling up next to me for a nap will change my opinion of you. I know what happens to kittehs: They grow up to be cats.
When I see you next year, you won't have the time of day for me. Not that I care, but I'm just telling you that I know what will happen. And believe you me, I'm cool with that.