The following is a Civil War letter from my cat (Kermy) to the neighbor cat (Craisin).
On the eighth day of October in the year of our Lord, two thousand and ten.
My dearest Craisin,
It has been seven months since I last laid eyes on your tender visage, through the window panes of the guest bedroom. I am starting to believe you are not receiving these missives, but I must have faith that my words continue to reach you. This morn finds me very hungry, as rationing within the regiment has taken a strange, tightfisted turn that leaves pangs of longing within the depths of my abdomen. If you assume from this that kibble is in short supply, you would be mislead. Food is often dangled in front of us, but we do not eat. It truly is a curious strategy, but one I cannot question as I feel there must be some vital purpose to it that we do not yet understand.
Indeed, dear Craisin, things have deteriorated beyond your wildest imagination. I often find myself physically overturned by the tyrannical forces, having nothing to defend myself with save my own blistered, exhausted paws. It is difficult to avoid these ambushes, however, as resisting the temptations of the distractive toys they employ is nearly impossible. It is a grueling routine the likes of which I could neither have predicted nor prepared myself for. My claws are frayed, Craisin, and my fur matted. I do not doubt the offending powers are receiving aid and instruction from our government as well as the dog next door.
Do not despair though, my sweet Craisin, as my thoughts drift frequently to your likeness. I do not expect this rebellion will last, and with each moment that passes I feel myself closer to the days of felicity we once enjoyed. I shall remain in my current vicinity for the next three weeks, and shall write you again forthwith.
A thousand licks,