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Hi, I’m Shani

NPR once called me a humor essayist, let’s go with that.  

shanisilver@gmail.com

Dear Dickhead Who Stole My Cat Food

Dear Dickhead Who Stole My Cat Food

Dear Dickhead Who Stole My Cat Food,

We’ve been at this awhile. First it was my hiking shoes, then a vegan cookbook, and after that my Katharine Graham biography. You stalk my building, somehow ingress it’s iron exterior gate, knife open packages belonging to tenants as they lay in the building’s portico, and leave the scattered remains void of their contents.

Oh sure, I’ve reported you, but since my building’s cameras are positioned to capture potential trash violations committed by the building’s own residents, rather than safety issues and outright crimes perpetrated by the dregs of humanity, there is little I can do to stop you. Thus you wait, you watch, and you thieve.

We are your endlessly pearling oyster, aren’t we? Over and over again, without regard for violating human beings you don’t know, or the inconvenience or loss you cause them, you take, and you take, and you take.

But the day you stole my cat food is the day you really became a piece of shit.

It is cat food. It feeds a cat and does literally nothing else. She’s eight pounds, she sleeps 80% of the day, and has never caused you offense of any kind. You foul creature what the actual hell is wrong with you? I get that you never know what treats await you inside that enticing Amazon Prime packaging, oh, it’s Christmas wrap to you, but is there no discovery that would cause you to just leave your spoils where you found them? Cat food? SERIOUSLY?

Is there a good resale market for Iams Senior dry? Fetching a nice price for that in the back alleys, are we? I sure hope so, I wouldn’t want you to waste your time, mine is quite enough.

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Crime Scene Footage

You might ask why I purchase my cat food via Amazon Prime. Well I’ll tell you. Eleven-pound bags of cat food will wreak havoc on a Target run. All of the consumer goods present in my apartment are there because I carried them home in my arms or on my back. My nearest source of cat food that can be tolerated by my furry companion and her fragile health is .6 miles away, and the volume of said cat food ensures that I can comfortably schlep little else. Rather than make a special trip and add an additional 1.2 miles on foot onto my Saturday, I chose to purchase my cat food, for an excellent price I’ll have you know, via Amazon Prime. I am of the convenience generation and I’ll not be judged, least of all by you.

You can’t fathom the hatred I have for you, the rage. The nerve of you. I can’t leave my home for the length of a World Cup match without incurring a personal loss. Thievery is one thing, but what you’re doing is something else. You are a scrounger. A bottom-feeding, spineless life form finding opportunity in the effort and grocery lists of others.

I dream that one day I’ll catch you. I’ll lie in wait in my hallway, armed with sustenance, and I’ll bide my time, for weeks if necessary. I’ll discover your ruse, your method of entry, as well as your timing and visual characteristics. Then I’ll post my video evidence to the internet and victory shall be mine.

Someone’s aunt from upstate will recognize you and you’ll be brought to justice, at last unable to glean the packages of others like your own personal garden of delights. I’ll never get back the money I’ve lost providing you with things to steal, but I can imagine a day where I’ll taste the sweet nectar of revenge.

Perhaps I’ll steal your shoelaces. One contact lens, maybe? I’ll remove your insurance card from your wallet, crack the screen of your phone. I’ll finally be able to revisit upon you the violations, inconveniences, and useless but rage-inducing harms that I’ve suffered for so long, and no doubt will continue to suffer still. But one day, you wretch, one day you’ll embark upon your sinister profession only to realize that you can’t larceny forth any further, because the justice you deserve has finally–finally–been delivered.

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