Dear Tallulah, My Animal Justice Flatmate

Satire: Dear Tallulah, My Animal Justice Flatmate,

I love animals. Hey, who doesn’t?

When you applied to my ad for a flatmate, I did say “animal friendly.”

And, don’t get me wrong. Having your tabby cat, Clementine, in my fifth-floor inner-city apartment for the last three weeks has been a blast.

Germain too, your Siamese.

And Squawker, your one-eyed galah.

I’m already used to your in-need-of-a-clean kitty-litter tray in the kitchen while you’re away on your important work trips, and the neighbours above and below rejoice at Squawker’s 10pm Metallica renditions.

It’s 100% true. Your work is vital to humanity’s very survival. I’m privileged to hear your impassioned lectures on the topic after a hard day at work on Monday … and Tuesday … and Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.

I don’t know who those farmers think they are raising chickens to actually feed people. It’s disgusting!

You go girl. You march straight onto private property, throw caution to the wind, declare those trespass laws an invalid colonist oppression, and tell the pitchfork-redneck “fowls’ freedom first.” Take photographic evidence of the poultry pecking and other tell-tale signs of free enterprise run amok. Chain yourself to something. Save the world!

But I’m wondering whether you might reconsider bringing one of the liberated hens back home in the future. I have doubts it’s a good idea.

When you did it last time, Clementine and Germain were exemplars in welcoming the hen, of course. In fact, they took to her very quickly when you dropped her off and left. I’m not too worried about the commotion and broken bust of Lenin as the hen unsuccessfully tried to find refuge in Squawker’s cage. It’s justice for the hen I’m sensitive to.

In completely separate news, your cats are well-fed.

And look, don’t get me wrong, I’m feeling all enlightened sharing your enthusiasm for a 100% plant-based diet.

I even tried it during your first week here.

But all this continual mutilating of mushrooms and lentils. I’m sorry. It broke me. I couldn’t help but feel bad for our living plant friends. Freedom for alfalfa too, I say. The world is so unjust.

I know. I know. It’s regrettable that you caught me at 2am on Tuesday, head inside the fridge, mouth stuffed with a fist full of sliced ham.

And you’re 100% right.

By doing that, I was enabling the global, industrial-food supply chains. Those capitalists are evil.  

Honestly, this sleep-walking problem to the fridge I’ve recently developed is a nightmare. I’m going to my second carnivore-counselling session next week to work on my hunger management issues. The first session advocated artificial meat cultured in a lab from sperm cells. All good. Not hungry anymore.

Anyway, that’s the update for now. Good luck trying to emancipate those enslaved guide dogs. Blind people can be so thoughtless sometimes. If you’re going to bring a couple home, best to sneak them up the fire escape so the neighbours don’t complain to that laissez-faire slumlord.

Crispy cricket chips are on offer tonight when you’re back.

Fight on comrade,
Vlad