Dear Neighbors, Happy Halloween, Don't let me in your house

Last night, Sam the Cat whined so long outside a neighbors' house that they let him in. Sam had to write a letter to the neighborhood explaining why it's really best not to do this.

Sam the Cat
XXX St

Dear Neighbors,
Happy Halloween.

Thank goodness for this holiday, I can communicate briefly in human talk. My people rescued me from a New Jersey Turnpike truck stop a long time ago, and as a result of breathing all those fumes, I have severe learning disabilities.

My people take really good care of me. They take me to the Dr. and feed me and pet me. I’m a great mouser, rabbiter, and birder so you should probably hide your children (not really, but hide your hamster). I free feed all the cat crunchies I want, and never get fleas. Somehow, I make friends with the skunks.

I like your porch. Well, really, I like every porch in the world. They were invented just for me, ya know. Porches are perches for me to look for critters to catch when I’m not sleeping. I love being outdoors, and stay out as much as I can. When I’m not on someone’s porch, or in my house, I’m sleeping in the nice warm dry nest I have under the back porch of my house. In the cold winter, there’s a heating pad in a back porch nest for me to sleep in if I don’t come when I’m called at night.

Years ago my people kept me inside because it didn’t seem safe for me to go out, with my not being smart and all. But I wasn’t happy. I was depressed and I’d sit at the window for hours on end with my nose against it – actually against it until there was catnose schmutz and drool all over it. So now they let me out. Even though my life is likely to be shorter, it’ll be better. It’s what they would want for themselves.

See, here’s the most challenging thing for me, and for those around me-- I’m a cat of very little brain. The most confusing thing for me is doors. I don’t understand doors. In 8 years, I haven’t learned that what’s on the other side of any door last time, is there this time too. I cry to go in and out. My parents have tried many times to teach me that in and out don’t change a whole lot, but I just don’t get it. I go out through a door, turn around, and Hey! There’s a door there! I wonder what’s on the Other Side of it? Are my people still there? Are my food and water bowls still there? Is the cat box still in that room with the nice water bowl? I just have to find out. Once I went in and out 21 times in an hour. (My people were bored, so they experimented.)

I cry a terrible meow, you’ve probably heard it. You’d think I was dying. I only have that one meow, whether I am happily chasing a frog, or trying to get someone to wake up and let me in at midnight. But I’m not dying, and I’ll stop if no one answers me, but if you weaken and let me in your house you’ll be done for. Because then I’ll find out that that differently colored spot on your house really is a door, and I’ll always be asking to be let in.

I promise, I’m ok. If I cry so much outside your small child’s room that he or she is going to cry too, please feel free to call my moms at xxxxxxx (7 am – 10 pm) and ask them to come and get me. Throwing a ball at me will make me go home, but I hope I never bother you that much.


Playfully,
Sam, with the assistance of Cindy and Rebecca