Henry the Horrified (22)

Late November in the Year of the Cat

Henry in his favorite shedding location.

Greetings.

It has come to my attention that you, as Feeder, are restricting entry to your home. According to Brigid the Darting Dog – it was she who initially reported this shocking event – you now assess the cleanliness and individual rate of shed (the technical term used to describe the number of hair clumps falling to the ground from one stationary individual in a particular window of time) before allowing legitimate Patch residents to enter your abode. This is a shocking and highly discriminatory practice which shakes me to my core.

As you know, it is my habit to perform at least one napping session daily upon your bedroom duvet, an episode which often coincides with necessary grooming and the depositing of spare hair. Will you go so far as to submit even myself to this new rate-of-shed regime? Might I suggest instead a graduated implementation, whereby those individuals whose rate of shed is measured in pounds of discarded fur be restricted – yes, I am referring here to Marge’s dramatic hair loss. Those of us who are experiencing the quotidian droppage of hair should not be penalized for the unfortunate and at times distinctly unhygienic practices of dogs (such as Brigid’s unfortunate habit of ingesting pig manure. I remind you – do not paint with too wide a brush.

It would be silly and absolutely lacking in logic for a Feeder – someone who knowingly takes on the duty of care for Cat People, Pig People, Dog People, and so on – to ignore the fact that the biological determinants of those in her care cause them to be covered from head to toe in hair or feathers. Or head to midthigh, as is the case of chickens.

I assume that your motivation for implementing a policy of domestic restrictions stems from a seemingly coherent thought process on your part, but I beg to suggest that hair and feathers and, if I may be so bold, manure are part of the daily round of a Feeder. To think otherwise is to labor in a state of naivete.

In the hope that you might soon come to your senses,

Henry