Remember that book by George Orwell...

... the one where the smart animals watch the humans and learn how to write and do human things? Well, it turns out Mr. Orwell's imagination wasn't so wild afterall. Because here I am, a gorgeous feline, typing away on the blog I share with my sister (though she's a bit dimwitted and hasn't learn to type yet.) Finally, all those hours of lying on my human's desk, watching her type, have paid off.

So, what does a lovely kitty like me have to write about? The !*#$@& pet food recall, that's what. Until March, my cafe served excellent dishes. Though a variety of meals were often presented, my favourite has always been chicken with gravy, prepared by the Science Diet chef. Mmmm... my eyes are tearing up just thinking of it. But then our human waitress stopped serving the chicken and gravy. In fact, she stopped serving good food full stop. I heard something on the snews about contaminated food. And while I sympathize with the pets who got sick, I'm also sick of eating crap. It's been two months! Where the @&*! is my food!

We cats pledge an oath to our species at birth. We must, at all times, strive to eat the best food possible. We must be fussy, because we have standards of the species to uphold. Just as Girl Guides pledge allegiance to the Queen, we pledge because we are Queens. Elizabeth II wouldn't eat Master Choice or Friskies slop, and neither will we. Damnit. You should see some of the stuff our human has tried to give us. Insulting is what it is. One day I was so mad I didn't talk to her all day. The nerve.

Pet chefs, get off your asses and get me my cuts with gravy! If you'd make the food yourself this wouldn't have been a problem in the first place. So there.

Until then, grumpily yours,

Dinah