Oh, Dave, terrible old obese cat, not at all the light of my life, definitely not the fire of my loins, not my sin, not my soul: How do I keep from murdering you in the middle of the night when you scream like a mechanized baby stolen away by hyenas in the jungle? You are in a warm apartment on Central Park West: Shut the fuck up and go to sleep.
Dear Dolly—I know you don’t like that giant sheepskin coat you inherited from that dead poodle you used to bump into occasionally in the park. But let me put it on you, please, while your mother is in India. Otherwise you’ll just have to shit in the house like that decrepit guy Scout.
Scooby, what can I say? I hated you when you scared Bodhi so badly that she jumped out the window. But I can almost forgive you for that (though not myself), considering how patient you’re being with Scout. I’m sorry he’s trying to kill you; maybe the Prozac will work.