Writer's Note: Yeah, yeah. Cats can't talk. But if mine did? This is pretty much what he'd be saying.
Andy: Mom? We need to talk.
Me: What about, hon?
Andy: See, I'm the oldest kid and even though I'm furry, walk on four legs, and am the equivalent of a 62-year-old human (Which, by the way, I'm still waiting for my Just-For-Cats, a convertible Corvette, and a trophy wife even though my parts don't work but, no rush. Just, you know, before I die.) I would really like to live out the rest of my life without the hairless monkey brats.
Me: Now, Andy. They're not brats.
Andy: Whining BUT THEY ARE! And I don't like them. They scream my name and chase me around the house.
Me: You're over-exaggerating. They don't chase you around the house. You run too fast for them. They chase you for two feet and you're already halfway to Vegas.
Andy: Whatever. I've taken the liberty of calling the local no-kill shelter. They said you could drop the monkeys off tomorrow afternoon.
Me: WHAT?!? I'm not dropping my children off at a no-kill shelter! You are out of your damned mind!
Andy: Me?!? I'm not crazy. You're the one who pushed kids out of her... you know... then proceeded to allow them to latch on to her... you know... and listen to them squall and fuss for over four years! GAH! Just promise me you won't miss that appointment I made for you at the vet.
Me: What appointment?
Andy: To have you fixed.
Andy: Running to Vegas. Nothing left but a puff of fur.