Dear Garfield

To, 

Garfield, 

Monday-hater, lasagna-, pizza- and pasta-lover and the laziest feline on earth, 

C/o Jon Arbuckle, 

C/o Jim Davis


Dear Garfield,

I’m not much of a cat person, but who could resist your fuzzy, orange attitude? Your hatred of Mondays and diets, and your obsession for lasagna, in particular, and food, in general, your live-and-let-live attitude when it comes to mice, but not spiders, are all legendary.

No food is safe around you. Your compulsive desire to polish off anything edible, except raisins and spinach, makes you the despair of Jon. Why he continues to tolerate you is beyond me, although the truth is that perhaps you tolerate him, though only barely.

You make fun of every one that you come in contact with. Poor Odie and Jon are at the top of your hit list, but Jon’s family, including his brother Doc Boy, and others aren’t spared either.

And yet you are endearing in your own way. I think part of your success has to do with how smug you are in your own perceived perfection. Where Jon might joke, "I wouldn't say Garfield is fat, but the last time he got on a Ferris wheel, the two guys on top starved to death," you continue to insist, “Breathing is exercise” and that “I’m not overweight. I’m undertall.”

In spite of your narcissism, your cruelty (could you go easy on kicking Odie off the table or on your efforts to pack Nermal off to Abu Dhabi?), your cynicism and sarcasm, not to mention your general obnoxiousness, you grow on us, with every pound you pack. I wonder why. Is it because laughing at other people is funny? Do we humans derive some sort of comfort out of knowing we are better than the Other?

I think that must be it, because I’ve been reading you for years, and I’ve seen you change slightly from a cat to something larger-than-life (no kidding!) with your squinty eyes and your tendency to walk on your hind legs. But other than that, there’s been no real change in you. Your habits remain the same.

You trouble the neighbours and destroy their flowerbeds. You go against nature by conniving with the house mice to trouble Jon. You swat spiders, and occasionally flies, with rolled up newspapers. You enjoy annoying Jon, by eating his houseplants and his birds and fish, and teasing dogs and harassing Herman, the mailman. You pick on Odie even though he bears you no ill-will.

But you can’t get away with it forever. I’ve watched you get your comeuppance from your electronic scale, the only thing that has the courage to dish out to you a full dose of the sarcasm you so freely hand out to others. That doesn’t feel very nice, does it?

And how did you feel when Jon, who you are always mocking for not having a date, begins to go steady with Liz, your vet, of all people?

While I’m at it, let me burst your bubble further. 

Much as you hate Mondays, Mondays hate you even more. 

Why do you think they show up so often?