We dreaded it. Twice a year my mom made my siblings and I don matching outfits so we’d at least look good when we fought like cats and dogs in front of the professional photographer’s camera. It was an ordeal to cram us into our pretty matching frocks, with my sisters and I crying, “But why does our brother get to wear pants?”
“Because he’s a boy and you’re girls,” my mom would say.
“That’s not fair,” I’d protest, a six-year-old feminist.
As a result, the photos were often besmirched with pouting kids. It looked something like this:
(OK, just kidding — I wish our family photos looked like that!)
We did this twice a year — for Easter in the springtime and for the holidays in winter — until my sibling hellions and I defeated our parents in a battle of attrition.
We were just like these cats, who are so over posing for family photos on Easter morning.
“Excuse me? There were no treats in this thing. How can I smile for the camera when you’ve crushed my spirit?”
“Those hairballs in the background are not mine.”
“It wasn’t me. I didn’t knock the eggs for the Easter family portrait from the counter.”
“HELP. ME. There’s actually a hole in this basket and the rest of my body is buried in sand.”
“Listen, dude, there can be only one furry, cute friend, and it’s me.”
Muffins feigned death, hoping that in the afterlife she would released from her horrible sweater.
Mr. Meow was not pleased with his role as Easter basket gift and quietly made note of the locations of everyone’s favorite slippers (to pee on later).
Missy could not roll her eyes back far enough.
Imitating the delicate lighting renditions of Caravaggio, this photo expresses the darkness this cat is feeling over his human imposed humiliation.
Foggy the cat soundly objects.