Dear Mrs. McNickers,
I've been told that my writing has taken on an edge in the past few weeks, and so, I'm going to apologize in advance as well. I'm fairly sure that what I'm about to say is going to strike you as rude and possibly uncalled for, but seeing as though you sent your letter first, I have the right to say, "You asked for it."
Considering you're not into dramatic hooplah, and I am, you'll pardon me while I get the drumrolls started. I want you to place your hands on the table and rap your hands as quickly as you can. When you feel you have built up a nice crescendo, read below.
(I'm giving you time to get the roll humming.)
(Build it up just a bit more.)
(A wee bit more.)
(Perfect. You can continue.)
Go. To. Hell.
(I added the periods so you'll pause after each word since that is how I would express it to you if I could actually get out of this house to say it to your face. However, I doubt that you would understand it since it would probably sound like innocent mewings to your withered, wrinkled ears.)
When I first entered this house, my human pet only had one rule for me: "Zeus, what happens in this house, stays in this house. When you go out into the world, you need to remember that you represent not only yourself, but everyone else who lives here. You keep our name in high regard." She never mentioned to me at the time that I would not really be leaving the house, but that's completely beside the point. The point is that she who makes the rule determines when the rule is broken, and she decided I had not done as she asked. That's how the perpetual cookie of myth and legend crumbles, Mrs. McNickers.
So to summarize: Go to hell, and mind your own damn business. When you rake, actually rake. Don't eavesdrop and snoop for your own entertainment.
And for the record: There is no such thing as Cat Protection Services. It's Child Protective Services, you old ninny, and that would imply that we were children. I guess my human pet spoke to me properly then.
Not So Sincerely,