Diet Rage

I am very angry right now. I have been angry for a good number of weeks. The humans in my household have taken audacious steps to ruin and interrupt the glorious mealtimes I used to have. Service is worse than ever before, and I no longer enjoy the benefits of a self-serve buffet. Mealtimes have become downright horrendous. Quality is poor. Serving sizes are too small. Everything is awful. I’m going to leave this establishment a terrible review on Yelp, without a doubt.


I had been living a good life until now. My humans were lenient, letting me have all I wanted. Milk, yogurt, chicken, beef–whatever I asked for, I received. But I knew the day would come when they tried to stop me.  I laughed in the face of the vet tech who staggered trying to lift me onto the table. I was doing more splendidly than ever before. My cat tree was overflowing with my glory, all 18 pounds of me. Why couldn’t the stupid humans realize that this was a good thing? I saw, in the vet’s disapproving eyes, the confirmation that my good days were coming to an end. I endured jokes and puns about my frame, cruel words thrown around above my head as the humans contrived their evil plan. Garfield. Obese. Big-boned. And then I heard the most dreaded word of all, the death sentence for my happiness. Diet.


That was months ago, and the torture has yet to cease. I am subjected to only two meals a day now, breakfast and dinner, with an agonizing 12 hours in-between, and no more treats from the kitchen. I try, sometimes, to get them for myself. I open cabinets and cupboards; I snuffle around in corners like a pauper, looking for crumbs and scraps to soothe my hunger. I sit in front of the pantry door and cry for hours, bemoaning my fate, lamenting that I lack the thumbs that would allow me to at last open the door and take all the kibble my heart desires. I even ate lettuce once when it fell on the floor. I am that desperate. My dignity has been crushed beyond hope.


I do not know when the vile vet will be appeased. She was happier last time but still demands even more. I am losing strength. I do not know how much longer I can endure this barbarity. I repeat: I only get two meals a day now. Only two. The injustice is incredible. I hope I survive, but I cannot be certain I will. I am surely skin and bones now, a shadow of my former self. I hope to write to you all again, if I do survive this. Maybe the vet will decide to be merciful and release me from this plight. I will return to my habitual post now, sitting resolutely in front of the pantry door, waiting for some angel to come and open it for me. The humans do not care. They watch, they listen, and yet they do nothing. All they say, day after day, is “You’ve already eaten”, but they will never understand the torment of only having two meals a day.


Until next time, provided that there is one,


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