A Fancy Cat Writes to His Least Favorite Cat Sitter

Dear Seth,

Please review the following infractions:

You were my general dog’s body for a week, yet, did you shower even once? Smelling like Pepe Le Pew might be acceptable in your social circle, but I have higher standards. Moreover, what was with the cat breath? Were you in at my kibble?
I’m not expecting a GQ model, but why did you wear that stinky old t-shirt and those horrible grey sweatpants with the hole in the ass—on every visit? Should I have magically transformed into your fairy godmother and taken you clothes shopping? And why the hole in the ass? You don’t have a tail.
This is embarrassing. I could chew my own tail off; or yours, if you had one. Despite being neutered, I’m a manly cat. My name is Tiberius not Tibby-Poo. Two can play that game, Mr. Sethy-Poo!
Instead of giving me your undivided attention, you mostly stroked and talked with your iPhone—with, take note, an excessive use of the word “like.” The only time you should have used “like” was either as a verb, for instance, when directed at me, as in, “I really like you” or “I feel like being this cat’s slave forever!” Consequently, you focused on me for precisely twenty minutes, twice a day, in lieu of the required three, two-hour sessions. Which means, sir, that you are a shirker and a slacker!
There is a magnificent oil portrait of me above the mantel. Named after an emperor, I’m wearing a laurel wreath. Greatness deserves recognition! You ignored it. You have a bald, over-sized head, you are a moron, and your face displeases me. Remember that droopy-nosed, part-blob fish “Shud the Mermaid” on SNL? Well, add a penis, remove the fishtail, and that’s you!
Regarding my litterbox: Grow a spine, man! It’s my personal latrine, for heaven’s sake, not a nuclear waste dump. No need to get all suited up in protective gear! Your neglect forced me to straddle a human toilet, which triggered my vertigo, and I almost fell in.
Sorry, but bursting into a caterwauling rendition of “Another One Bites the Dust” while I was trying to take a nap, did not qualify as entertainment, and instantly rendered two paws down. Furthermore, your accompanying “moonwalk” was spectacularly dreadful.
For my massage, you should have warmed organic coconut oil between your hands, while telling me, in a baby voice, that I was the cutest, fluffiest little kitty-witty in the whole, wide world. Instead, treating me like a stubborn stain on a smelly old dog’s cushion, you scrubbed away vigorously with an un-oiled fist. Not only depriving me of a coconut-flavored grooming session (which helps with my hairballs!), but inflaming my skin condition. No wonder I encircled your arm with my claws and sank my teeth in!
Although I meowed a reminder and rubbed against the bottle, my Calm Kitties anti-anxiety meds were not forthcoming. More specifically, you read the label, glared at me like some psycho cat hater, and swallowed a couple.
I like watching My Cat from Hell on the Animal Planet. However, you insisted we watch The Big Bang Theory. I hate Sheldon! Sheldon reminds me of myself. And what cat wants competition?
Moreover, where was my tuck-in at bedtime, my bedtime story, my kiss goodnight?
To cap it all, you tripped over me, fell down the stairs and broke a leg. Without my Calm Kitties, your cries for help, the resultant sirens, the smashed front door, and all that ridiculous attention paid to you, were most upsetting.