Dear Owner,

I cringe calling you owner, but it's better than calling you master I suppose...

You should know if my body language hasn't sufficiently communicated this, that I most certainly will not lick you because you call it giving you kisses, and your children are horrid. They torture me when you are in the kitchen smoking your cigarettes and drinking folgers crystals and water with that skinny gossipy girl your boyfriend hates.

I am also baffled at why you have decided to call me Mrs. Whiskers Esquire. I am no one's council, and no one really thinks it's as cute as you seem to.

You trouble me.

I do not like it here.
The dry food you purchase tastes like the paper I chew when I'm bored and need to take out revenge passive aggressively on your books.
If you really loved me you wouldn't buy generic.
Money would be no object if you loved me.
You would regard my tastebuds.

I am writing you this letter because I am leaving today.
The squirrels in the attic finally created a way to get out, and I am not fool enough to tarry another day.

I would say thankyou for the laughs and that there were good times, but it would be better for me to say nothing as usual, and take my leave when you fall asleep in front of that show you love , which plays in the middle of the afternoon, so mothers and daughters can fight over the same boyfriend, and trailer park communities can have brawls on stage.

It has been interesting.

Without Pause

Philomena, formerly known as Mrs. Whiskers Esq

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