Dear Maple County Humane Society,

I am writing to request that I be rehomed. When I was adopted two years ago, I thought I’d had it made. After all, living with a bakery owner seemed a lot better than living in the dumpster behind the '50s-themed diner. But since moving in with Lucinda, my life has been nothing but cutesy crime solving and I’m over it. I’d rather get spayed again than have to solve one more cozy mystery.

My first week out of the shelter, Lucinda’s mailman was found stabbed in the back with a letter opener. Who had to find the culprit? I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t the completely ineffectual Maple Tree PD. It was me, a 6-year-old housecat with hyperthyroidism.

And it’s not like it was hard! I figured out it was the new mailman within about five seconds because he delivered a package to our door and clearly had a bloody letter opener in his pocket. I just wanted to sit in the empty box once Lucinda had unpacked it, but no. I had to hiss and jump on the guy until she noticed the murder weapon, and even then, I was the one who had to use my tiny toe beans to unlock her iPhone and call 911.

Then, a few months after The Case of the Macabre Mail Murder, I got roped into solving an arson when a rival bakery burned down and Lucinda was a suspect. The Maple Tree police chief told her he didn’t have a clue who else could have done it, but he thought that her cat might be able to help. Are you kidding me? Since when is “give up and delegate to a cat” police protocol?

So, I snuck in through the window of the rival bakery owner’s apartment and retrieved a sticky note where he had written, “To do: look up how to commit insurance fraud.” Another toe bean 911 call, and The Case of the Baffling Burning Bakery was closed. I’m not sure how evidence stolen by a cat was permissible in court, but whatever.

Then there was that kidnapping where Lucinda was dating the kidnapper. This was the guy who abducted the queen of a small European nation, who just so happened to be traveling through Maple Tree for some reason. I wrote in my litter box sand, “Greg did it,” but she cleans my box so infrequently that she didn’t notice. She’s such a dim bulb that she had no clue until she found the queen in our basement and he tied them both to a chair. I had to scratch through the ropes to rescue them, then push my little jingle ball in front of him so he tripped when trying to escape.

And what does Lucinda do after I’ve solved The Case of the Mysteriously Missing Monarch? She bakes oatmeal cookies while reading the recipe out loud and forgets to refill my MeowMix. Meanwhile, I’m given a distinguished conduct medal by the police chief, who says he knows he can always count on me.

Look, I’m not a spry kitten. I need a home where I can lounge in a sunlight puddle, lick my butt, and trip out on catnip. I want to do normal cat stuff, like being able to knock a piece of mail off the counter without it turning out to be Lucinda’s grandfather’s long-lost will. Or, hunting for mice without inadvertently stumbling upon a severed human finger and then feeling obligated to help locate the victim.

I mean, Jesus, I just want to be able to throw up without Lucinda asking, “Ginger, is that a clue to solving The Case of the Horribly Haunted Hanson House?” (No, Lucinda, it’s because I ate half a plate of eclairs, and also, the mansion isn’t haunted, it’s the nephew trying to scare away the owner with sound effects so that the house can be sold to a condo developer. Use your brain.)

I’m sure there’s a cat out there who’s a better fit for Lucinda. She needs a companion who enjoys listening to her yak about fruit compote and who is willing to tackle the occasional crime scene investigation. I may have a knack for it, but it’s not how I want to live my life anymore.

Please help me with my request for rehoming.


P.S. Your accountant is embezzling funds. I’ve already toe-beaned the police.