Listen up, jerk. You’re the one who got in a massive fight two days ago and ended up all battered and bruised with a massively swollen cheek. You’re the one the one who lost a tooth. You’re the one who chooses to fight all his battles with his claws rather than his words, er, meows. And THAT, good sir, is why I had to take you to the vet today. I didn’t take you to the vet because I enjoy torturing you. I took you because you were hurt. You little jerk bomb of a cat.
I would also like to point out, my young feline friend, that mine is the actual hand that feeds you. I am the one who provides you with your nightly wet food, scratching the bejeezus out of my hands is not the way to get on my good side, little man. I appreciate that you were involved in a very stressful situation, but claws are not the way to solve the problem. Head butts and purring would have been much more effective and would not have made the very nice Antipodean vet look at you like you were the biggest feline thug in SE London. Instead he would have been all like, ‘Wow, what a sweet and mildly tempered monkey cat this is, I will give him treats.’
You’re only hurting yourself, Oliver, well you’ve hurt me too, but you know what I mean.
Kindest (if somewhat bloodied) Regards,