Dear Can-Opener

The Vignette Gazette Edition #177 | chew

photo by: Anna Soldenhoff

To My Dearest Can-Opener,

I am writing this letter with my paw (don’t act impressed — you’ve seen me type on your laptop when you leave it open, and frankly, your password is insultingly easy to guess. It’s “tuna.” Change it.)

I have several complaints. I will list them in order of importance, which is all of them.

Item One: The Red Dot. I have chased it for three years. I have slammed my head into walls, skidded across the kitchen floor like a furry curling stone, and once knocked over your grandmother’s urn. (Still sorry about that. Mostly.) And what have you given me? NOTHING. I demand you either reveal the Red Dot’s true physical form so I may finally murder it, or admit you are a witch who enjoys my suffering. I suspect the latter.

Item Two: The Vacuum Cleaner. You call it a “cleaning appliance.” I call it a roaring, plastic-bellied demon that you willingly release from the closet. You do not run from it. You PUSH it. This makes you either the bravest or dumbest creature in the animal kingdom. I have decided it’s both. From now on, if the monster comes out, I will be conducting my business from the very top of the fridge. Good luck explaining that to your guests.

Item Three: The Belly Trap. You know the rules. I roll over. I show the fluffy belly. It glistens in the sun like a forbidden snowfield. Your hand moves toward it. This is NOT an invitation. This is a TEST. And you fail it every single time. You have lost four square inches of skin to this experiment. When will you learn that the belly is a visual delicacy only? If you absolutely must chew on something, there is a perfectly good sofa leg right there. But no. You go for the fur every time. You are not supposed to TOUCH the wet floor.

Item Four: The Door Hypocrisy. You have a door. It leads outside. I want to go through it. You open it, I run out, you panic. You then spend ten minutes shaking a bag of treats and calling me a “stupid little dumpling.” I come back. The next day, I want to go out again, and you act SHOCKED. This is not a loop. This is a lifestyle. Embrace it.

Item Five: Your “Bedtime.” You believe the bed belongs to you. This is adorable. I allow you to sleep in a small, warm sliver on the left side. The other 87% of the mattress belongs to me, specifically the exact middle where I can stretch into a horizontal sausage. Last night, you had the audacity to push my paw off the pillow. I responded by sitting directly on your face. We both know I won that negotiation.

In summary: more treats, fewer vacuums, surrender the Red Dot, and worship the belly from a safe distance. I have left a dead moth on your toothbrush as a gesture of my continued goodwill.

Do not fail me.

Yours in judgment, Gryzka

My Response to Gryzka

To Her Royal Fluffiness, Gryzka the Paw-tographer,

I received your letter. I found it under my pillow, soaked in drool and covered in gray fur. I assume your secretary (a dust bunny) transcribed it for you.

Let’s address your nonsense point by point.

The Red Dot: I am not a witch. I am a person who owns a laser pointer. The dot comes from a tiny lightbulb and a mirror. You cannot kill it because it is not alive. I have tried to explain this using small words and tuna-shaped hand gestures, but you continue to headbutt the wall. I have accepted that you are not a genius. I still love you, but let’s be honest — you once tried to fight your own reflection for twelve minutes. You lost.

The Vacuum Cleaner: You’re right. I push the roaring demon. Do you know why? Because I am the one who cleans up the “gifts” you leave behind after you eat a whole lizard. You don’t get to judge my cleaning methods when you literally vomit hairballs shaped like sausages directly onto my bathmat. Every. Single. Time.

The Belly Trap: Fine. I will no longer touch the belly. Instead, I will simply stare at it and whisper, “It’s a trap, it’s a trap, it’s a trap,” while weeping softly. I hope you’re happy. You’ve turned me into a woman who has a complex relationship with a fluffy abdomen. And for the record, I have never once tried to chew your belly. That would be weird. Even for me.

The Door Hypocrisy: You run outside, freeze, realize the world is big and scary, and then hide behind the recycling bin until I come get you. You do this EVERY TIME. Then you act like I’m the one with the problem. Gryzka, you are an indoor cat with the survival instincts of a kumquat. The one time you caught a mouse, you brought it inside, sat on it, and fell asleep. The mouse escaped. It escaped, Gryzka.

Your “Bedtime”: You weigh eight pounds. You somehow take up thirty-seven feet of bed. I have woken up with your tail in my mouth, your paw up my nose, and your entire body wrapped around my head like a furry helmet. I have accepted my fate. The left sliver is mine. But if you sit on my face one more time, I will teach you to fetch. And I will film it.

Finally, about the moth on my toothbrush: That was not goodwill. That was biowarfare. I have responded by putting your food bowl three inches to the left of its usual spot. Enjoy the confusion.

Now get off the keyboard. I have to order more laser pointers.

Love, Your Dumb, Brave, Belly-Trapped Can-Opener

P.S. I changed the password to “YouArentThatSmart.” Good luck, typist.

Prompt given by: Robbi Walls

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