Dear Cat;

I thought that there would be *one* place in the house where you couldn’t get, one place where I could put breakable things without it ended up as a shrapnel bomb. As one can see here, I was wrong.

I realize that you’re gray like the gargoyle, and actually look rather attractive up there. If all you wished to do was sit there above the front door, I might put up with it. But I’m not amused when plaster gargoyles and 100 year old books come raining down. And further, now where am I supposed to put my alien-fetus-in-a-jar??!

Please restrict yourself to lower altitudes.

Thank you,

The Humans