A Letter from Tinkers the Cat to Gus the Dog Regarding the Mystery Poop in the Litterbox‏

Dear Gus the Dog,

We’ve shared many an adventure throughout our time together with the Vickers family, haven’t we? From our comical, yet destructive, backyard chase at the family’s Labor Day picnic to the time we teamed up to turn the family against the Wilbur the gerbil, our relationship has been a tumultuous concoction of periodic rivalry and mutually beneficial teamwork.

No matter where this roller-coaster ride has taken us over the years, however, I have always felt that ours was a relationship secured upon a foundation of mutual respect. That was until I came upon a strange and mysterious pile of shit in my litter box. Shit, I might add, that I know with a certainty was pushed out of your traitorous ass.

How do I know it’s your shit, Gus? Well, that’s a great question. I’m no genius, but here were a few clues even Corky from “Life Goes On” could have cracked:

1) The turd in question is approximately 11 inches in length, with a girth of no less than two inches. In my entire life I have never squeezed out fecal refuse any larger than one inch in diameter. You’ve seen my anus. It’s tighter than the t-shirts that bi-curious kid across the street wears. For me to force something of that size from my rectum, I would need a vat of lube and somebody pushing from the inside. Not happening in this lifetime.

2) The pooh so obviously planted in my litter box was deposited in a coil. In your six years of knowing me, have you ever seen me lay a coiled pooh? For that matter, have you ever seen ANY cat leave behind a coiled pooh? Let me answer that question for you, Gus. No. No you haven’t. We cats realize the difference between shit and visual art. If we wanted to make an artistic statement that was pleasing to the eye, we would randomly sprint across the room at break-neck speeds or prop up a mouse corpse in a funny pose. Coiled shit is not a feline’s preferred artistic medium.

3) Last, but certainly not least, upon further inspection, the feces planted in my litter box contained easily recognizable chunks of my very own shit inside of it. Huh? Yeah, that’s right. The perpetrator’s shit was partially made up of my own droppings, meaning that whoever left the evidence had consumed my droppings prior to digesting and crapping it. Now, Gus, I’m not trying to be judgmental, here, but we all know you snack on my shit. Valerie and Dave have seen it. Little Audrey has witnessed it. Hell, before we snuffed his ass, even Wilbur mentioned seeing you go hog-wild on my anal meow mix.

So, what are we going to do about this awkward situation?

Well, first off, I think it’d be great if you came forward and admitted your involvement. I know you can’t talk, and we both know it’d take you about three fucking years to type out a letter. So, I was thinking you could maybe carry the misleading poop up to Dave, drop it at his feet, and bow your head in shame. It’s not an ironclad confession, but he’ll get the point.

As for me, I don’t need any grand gesture of remorse. No catnip treats. No licking my butt for me (which I do love, by the way). Simply be accountable for your unfortunate misstep, and I will be more than happy to move forward with nary a ounce of ill will.

Should you refuse to accept responsibility for your act, however, I would like to make perfectly clear the consequences of such short-sighted behavior. Shirk your ethical obligation, and I will reign hell upon your stupid, wrinkled head. You won’t know when. Knowing you, you won’t even know why — even though I’m telling you right now. But please trust me. It will happen.

I hope I have made my feelings about your behavior, and the steps needed to remedy our situation, perfectly clear. Should you have any questions or concerns, I would encourage you to present them to me in a concise, cogent fashion. I will be available most days between 9 a.m. and 3:30 p.m., except for Tuesday, when I intend to stare out the window at passing cars and joggers for hours on end.

I look forward to building an interstate highway of open and respectful communication between the two of us, and wish you nothing but the best in your future endeavors.

Be well,
Tinkers the Cat

P.S. – I killed a bug the other day, but can’t remember where I put it. If you find it, let me know.

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