You know how we try very hard, here at Dr Dave Logs Inc. to project this image of cold cynicism and jaded affectation. We have, in the past, thrown many an unfair pique at those bloggers whose main content usually consists of detailed reports on the health and diet habits of their fluffy ones: sure, the repetitive photos eventually get a bit annoying, and the entries tend to have that insistent smell of cat’s urine… But after all, what’s wrong with loving your animal and tell the world about it? Especially if all the time not spent doing so, is usually spent roaming about their house, mumbling to themselves and checking on the state of their previous loved ones, neatly stacked in their freezer.

For, you see, tonight I am a bit worried.

Let me give your the rundown.

It all started when these new neighbours moved next-door and came to introduce themselves as is customarily done here. A common love of milk and bacon, a tendency to express our likes and dislikes by purring or hissing loudly, as well as similar difficulties in establishing meaningful communications with the other natives, immediately brought us closer. A durable friendship was born.

Of course, there were difficult times too. A significant differences in our respective approach to gardening techniques marred our relationship for a while, but this didn’t last. Soon, things went back to normal.

And then, upon returning from my latest European tour, I had the joy to be introduced to the freshest members of the family (the dad, meanwhile, seemed to have taken off to Florida with a new pussycat, fifteen years younger than him: all them bastards). The new catlings were indeed so tiny, fluffy and cute that I did have to excuse myself many times to cry off my emotion on a pillow.

Other than that, we had a sort of symbiosis going on: I’d periodically sacrifice the last remainder of my morning cereal milk, or the odd can of cat-food bought at the supermarket in a moment of weakness… in exchange, they would stop meowing under my window at the break of dawn (at least long enough to quaff all the food down).

Truth be told, I was already a bit worried at that time: being the flaming compassionate conservative that I am (it means I don’t wanna give a single penny in tax to help the lazy bastards. but I kinda feel bad about it once a year), I knew instinctively that building their dependency on me as their sole purveyor of food, was doing them a disservice… Pretty soon they’ll be cheating on their welfare check, getting into drugs, selling drugs, killing babies, the work. It was my duty to teach them how to fend for themselves.

“Give a man a fish; you have fed him for today. Teach a man to fish; and you have fed him for a lifetime” the wise man says. What a bunch of bollocks: obviously, you can’t teach a cat how to fish. How would it hold the fishing pole? doesn’t even have an opposable thumb and all.

Kung-fu seemed like a better idea. I had it all down: between the three of them, and with a few efficient Bruce Lee moves, they could definitely take down a crow. Which, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t mind at all.

But before we had time to start on the training, and without any warning, they all disappeared. No more morning wake-ups to a discordant chorus of feline hunger. No more fluffballs finding new and inventive ways to scatter my gardening tools all over the place. Only the mom came by this week for a quick chat and a bite. She seemed to know as little about her furry offsprings as I did.

So, to the people who may have kidnapped the kittens, this is a public message: please release them immediately and we won’t send Godzilla on your ass.
If you are one of the abducted kitten and reading these lines: escape and come back and I promise we will share the remaining three stripes of bacon I keep in my fridge.

At least send an email.