Dearest Harley, Oh, hey. Just thought I'd pop in to, you know, see how you're doing. Find out about your day. Scratch your belly. You know, things. Also to ask if you could please shit IN your litter box.
IN YOUR LITTER BOX.
See that damn box? In your office? With the litter? SHIT IN THAT BOX. Dammit.
Not on the rug by the door. Not in the hallway. Not by the coffee table. IN. THE. BOX.
Don't come running into my bedroom all willy-nilly at 3:32 a.m. looking for attention and trying to play nice because I CAN SEE RIGHT THROUGH YOU. And I smell your shit in the hallway. And you know what? Your shit does stink. So crawling under my covers after your undercover shit operation does not fly in this household.
I like you. You're cute and precious and cuddly and bend like a noodle. But you stink. And your shit makes me gag. And you have poor manners and a poor sense of direction. Like, the direction toward the LITTER BOX.
U S E T H E L I T T E R B O X, Y O U B A S T A R D C H I L D.
Ahem. Thank you.