I found this letter to Santa from my cat, facedown on my scanner, written in … I think beef broth. I’ve reprinted it in full. The cat and I are going to have a talk later.
Can I call you Nick? I don’t go in for that Kris Kringle nonsense, and Santa sounds like a name for a dog.
I’m not here to beg, Nick. I won’t go on about how nice I’ve been because I don’t work like that and frankly I’ve been a monster. Simply put, Nick: I need high-quality merchandise. Delivery by tomorrow. I know you ship on Christmas but I don’t want to wait that long, so here’s what I want you to do:
- Call your elves to the workshop. I don’t care if they’re neck deep in a bucket of rum, get them to their stations and get the bandsaw running, because I want a giant cat tree. Think big: I want it covering the house, a massive jute and sisal spiderweb, with all kinds of stupid crap for me to swat at. Use your best judgment. Take the lead on this and make it majestic.
- Next, bring your wrench and welding gear, because you’re going to solder all the faucets into the open position when you get here. I’m sick of meowing for my running water. That’s got to stop. No more pacing and meowing like I have half a brain. THE WATER RUNS, NICK!
- That brings us to mealtime. You know what to do, judging by what you have to stuff into your red suit every morning. I want to look like you in three months, you feel me? Roasted chicken every night, lamb, consommes, buckets of gravy.
- Do I want a pool? I think I want a pool. One pool, Nick, filled with carp.
- Next, I need your best carpet guys to take this place wall-to-wall. The hardwoods are a little rough on my paws. Your finest deep pile should do it, in teal.
- I’m sick of the litter box. I want a litter room. The guest bedroom should do.
- 10,000 crinkle balls, give or take.
- So much catnip you’ll have the DEA on your tail once you hit U.S. airspace.
- This may sound crazy, but I’d like a little injured bird to hobble into the house every morning so we could … talk.
- More sun puddles. Tear off the roof or tip the Earth on its axis if you have to, it’s your call. Again, you’re the professional.
- I need you to disappear Elf on the Shelf. I don’t care how you do it.
Now get your butt on that sleigh and bring me my stuff. And tell Rudolph that if I see him again this year, he’ll have more than just a red nose.
Don’t [redacted] me on this, Nick.
P.S. Sorry for the tone. The doorbell rang yesterday and I still haven’t recovered.
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