Illustration © 1992 Jay Lynch

It was February of 1992. It was a leap year, and anything was possible. “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred enjoyed the number one spot on Billboard. Ross Perot announced his run for presidency on the Larry King Show. A free newspaper distributed in Chicago called Planet: Stranger Than Fact, Truer Than Fiction introduced Reginald the Cat to an unsuspecting world in Volume II, Issue 4. The following is a reprint reformatted for the digital blog.

Dear Reginald the Cat: My cat, Herman, has been spitting up hairballs six to eight times a day. He’s seven years old and in pretty good shape for a housecat. I have seen three vets, and they haven’t been able to find a cure for him. I’m afraid that he may die. What can I do? –Endlessly Wiping Cat Hank Off The Floor, III, Esq.

Dear E.W.C.H.O.T.F., III, Esq.: Yes, you are probably right about your cat dying. A very close companion of mine, Prince Bartholomew, passed in a similar manner because fleshy excuses like you neglected to treat a cat like a fellow human being. It is bigoted people like you that destroy the trust between cats and your pathetic kind. If I saw you, I would hiss and spray all over your lower-class leg!

Since the damage is irreversible, you might as well pamper Herman with eight course meals and lick his paws after he does the litter thing. Make sure you lick out the hard to reach spots, or may you feel the wrath of my cat fury!

Dear Reginald the Cat: My cat is perfect, and I feel inadequate to be his owner. Is there something I could do for him that would make me worthy? I have tried everything; please help me. –Just Trying To Please

Dear Just Trying To Please: Rarely do I get such a touching letter from a cat owner like yourself. This may hurt, but let’s be honest. You will never be worthy of a cat’s trust. You are a stupid, ignorant human being that consumes one and one-third beers a minute. You are pink-fleshed legs as far as I’m concerned.

Since there is really nothing you can do to make up for your ineptness, try licking his anus in circular motions. Before you do this, make sure that you first lick his tongue a couple of times to transfer its scent onto yours. After all, we’re cats and we don’t want to smell like you.

Dear Reginald the Cat: I am sickened by your column. Who gave you the right to put down our race? Without us humans, you would be chased up trees by vicious packs of dogs. Without us, who would feed you? While you idiots play with your yarn, we humans go out and work at nuclear plants so the world doesn’t explode. You’re lucky to have humans to look after you.

Remember the structure of the food chain, and that if I really wanted to, I could have a cow crush your head under its powerful hooves. –Anonymous in Texas

Once in a while, I have to print a letter like this to prove how daffy you humans can be. If we, cats, are so stupid, tell me this: How was Nixon re-elected? Huh? We can’t vote. It was a landslide to boot. We’re idiots because we play with yarn? Who are the jackasses that destroy rain forests so they can have their fast-food packaged? It’s not us.

Violence may be a simple solution in your high-shelved world, but to us, we wait anxiously for the demise of humankind and the beginning of a golden era.