Hello, Dinah. Yes, Dinah, my precious trash baby, I’m talking to you. I know this is confusing because we seldom have chats and you have a terrible attention span, but I’d still like a few moments of your time, okay?
You need to stop scratching up my stairs. Just… stop. If the apartment complex has to fix those stairs, it’s going to cost us $1200. Now, I know money means nothing to you and isn’t even an abstract concept, but it’s important. It gets you the ice cream and cream cheese you love to eat, and $1200 is like 400 ice creams, maybe more. What is 400? A lifetime. From now until infinity. From nothing until nothing. It is everything. That’s 400.
Hey! Hey, Dinah, look here. It’s whipped cream. Look, whipped cream. Okay, good, I have your attention again.
You don’t even need to scratch on the stairs. We kept an $800 old mattress just for you to destroy. We’ve bought you four different scratchpads and scratching posts, which we’ve saturated in catnip and fish oil. We have a four-tiered cat tree with scratching posts on every level. There is no reason for you to be fucking up my stairs.
What’s it going to take for you to stop? We already trim your claws and put blankets on the stairs, which you blithely scratch under. Do I have to pee on the stairs? Am I seriously going to have to just pee all over them? Because, even though that will definitely mean I’ll have to pay $1200 to replace the carpet, I’m this freaking close to doing it. You are killing me here.
Did you just freaking scratch the stairs while I was talking to you? Dinah, I love you, you are my precious one, we are buds, but if you don’t stop I will put you back in the trashcan where we found you, I swear to God.
Fine. I wouldn’t do that. But I will go out and fill the house will balloons if you don’t stop this. I know you don’t like balloons. I know they freak you out. But I don’t want to do that. I love you. You’re my precious Dinah-bell. But I will fuck you up if you don’t stop scratching my stairs.