Stuart: A plea for dignity
It’s not my style to grovel, and I hate to beg. If I had my way, I would kill all five of my own meals. Thus you can imagine the shame of having someone dump out a can of pre-killed slime into your bowl, day after day. It’s not that I’m ungrateful, it’s just that I and all of my people have our dignity. Sometimes people forget that about us, claiming to be our best friends but treating us like garbage disposals. True, I can’t understand why anyone would throw away perfectly good chicken bones, but the fact that they’re not wanted…well, how do you think that makes us feel?
Anyway, the point I’m getting to is that, though I’ve lived a debasing life of oppression and boring diets, I’m not going to stoop to making you feel sorry for me. Though I’ve never been allowed into the Level Edwards Stadium and probably never will be, I’m not going to paste my picture on milk cartons as a victim of segregation. True, I have friends who pull the sad eye trick to get what they want from you folks–and boy, what they wouldn’t do to get their paws of these tickets–but I like to think that I’m above that.
Therefore, mister editor, or miss to whom it may concern, I’m writing this essay just to let you know that (1) contrary to popular belief, people without opposable thumbs are fully capable of typing, and (2) that unlike little Charlie, I don’t need to win a golden ticket to find meaning in my life. I have plenty of meaning. I have beef chunks. And gravy. And my squishy rubber thing. Who needs Miley Cryus and the Blue Man Group when you can chew on something so…rubbery?
So please don’t don’t think that I need these tickets. I don’t. Give them to the little girl with leukemia. While thousands of you folks are enjoying the fireworks, I’ll be perfectly content lying in my hairy basket, chewing my squishy rubber thing.