I wrote this little cat-monologue for my Second City Comedy Writing Class … Listen, before I’m forced to crawl into that cage I have to present my case. Let me start out by saying I didn’t do it. I am completely prepared for you not to believe me on this one, at least not right away. Besides, I’m a frustrated feline with beautifully maintained claws and fangs. I’ve been abused and mistreated for the entirety of my stay here at Evergreen Place.

The truth of the matter is, I am not a violent animal. I admit, that old man obviously had it coming with his snotty hands and kicking feet, but I restrained from sinking my teeth into his wrinkly flesh because…well, that’s just not how I conduct myself in these situations. Let me clarify by providing some examples.

Lorraine- you know, the balding lady in the wheelchair? Hmm…I guess that describes everyone in this place. She’s the one with the stringy nose hair and extremely competitive nature. Anyway, on numerous occasions she has angrily wrenched me by the neck and elevated me over her wheelchair like a barbaric, handicapped gorilla. This typically happens after she looses a significant amount of Bingo games to her fellow residents. I dealt with this abuse for some odd months, until I decided to handle the situation in a quiet yet strategic manner.

After waiting a few weeks for the purrrrfect moment, I pulled the old Bingo set from the shelf when none of the nurses were around. I skillfully dragged it under a recliner and gnawed the heck out of the boards and pieces for a few hours. I then hauled each piece, one-by-one, to Lorraine, who was taking her afternoon nap in the front room. I gently piled the pieces on her lap during the entirety of her slumber. Bernard was the only resident who saw me do this, but he was moved to the west wing that morning for dementia, so I knew my plan was sure to be successful. An hour later the nurses discovered the shredded game pieces on Lorraine and immediately banned her from the game—and every other game in the building—for the rest of her life. Now, I could have put her in physical harm by biting off a toe or two, but I figured that is only fun and delicious for a quick moment. The satisfaction I get from seeing her in the corner, watching in jealousy as the others rant and rave over a Bingo game every Sunday, far surpasses the taste of her tinny blood.

I resolved a similar issue with Barry—the one with the eye patch who’s quick with the walker. He would get up in the middle of the night and urinate in my litter box. This was a purposeful action, because he claims I give him watery eyes and make him sneeze…a preposterous charge to say the least. He would giggle like a small, one-eyed child as he saturated the gravel with his bright-yellow stream. The box would be left drenched, which would only allow me a mere corner to properly relieve myself until the next time the nurses changed the litter. This went on for over three weeks before I determined it was time to get even and stop this ridiculous behavior. Once again, I waited for the perfect moment to complete my mission. It was a stormy summer night, around 2am. A flash of lightning caused the power to click off unexpectedly, and the night shift nurses and aides scrambled throughout the dark halls with flashlights, tending to the residents reliant on respirators and other fancy equipment.

I snuck into Barry’s room and slithered under his bed, waiting for a clap of thunder to allow a sound-free pounce on his bed. A flash of lightning filled the room with yellow light and I jumped on the small twin bed without even making him stir. I crawled under his blankets and relieved myself quietly in the middle of the bed. The old sap didn’t feel a thing…or at least he didn’t wake up in time to catch me. I dove off the bed and hid under it just as an aide stepped in to check on him. She noticed the large wet spot and called for backup. As the other aides entered to help clean him up, I ran out the door unnoticed. Before I left I noticed his hearing aid was on the side table, and knew I could get away with such a plan without the help of a storm. The following three nights I continued this urinating escapade, which eventually lead the nurses to prescribe that Barry wear a large diaper and drink an extra liter of cranberry juice each day, as they were worried about the strong ammonia smell his pee extracted. His diaper is almost impossible to take off without assistance. Ever since, my litter box has been human-urine free, and I can happily relieve myself in any section of the box.

So, why do I admit to such irate plans? Because, as you can see, I am not a violent animal by any means. I did not eat Lorraine’s toes, nor did I claw Barry’s other eye out of its socket. I utilized my highly capable cat-brain to present a completely violent-free form of vengeance. Therefore, based on my record, it is quite obvious that I did not bite Gary for rubbing his snot-infested fingers through my beautiful mane of black then kicking me when I protested. No. I DO admit that I hide under the front room plants immediately after his abuse and began stewing up a nice plan to get back at him—one that did not include violence or putting his life in danger.

You’re next question will be, “If I the cat did not bite him, who did?” Well that is an interesting question with an even more interesting answer. The truth of the matter is, he bit himself. After he kicked me in my kitten suckling area I howled in pain and jolted out of the room. I noticed, as I was running out, the mirror on the wall by the door. I kept my eyes on him through the reflection to make sure he was not following me, and saw him glare at his bare hands like some sort of madman. As soon as I exited, I heard a disgusting “chomp” and his wily voice scream in agony. I was too afraid to turn back and see what had happened. It is quite obvious that Gary felt silly for the way I reacted to his snot fingers, and was undoubtedly embarrassed when I ran away. His anger lead him to bite himself in a vengeful frenzy. And believe me when I say, I am one to know the power of vengeance, if anyone does.

So please, do not take me away to be dealt with by euthanasia. I am still in my prime and would like to continue my life here if possible. I will no longer eat the resident’s pudding or gnaw on the blinds in the foyer. I will let them brush me with their wire combs, even if it is making me bald. I simply have too much going for me to be sent away in such an unjust manner.