Sugar Speaks

June 13, 2009

MEMO

To: The Mamas
From: Sugar
Re: My Unfortunate Incarceration

Rumor has it that you two may be home late tonight, so I might be extending my “staycation” at The Compound another day. This is completely unacceptable, as I’ve now figured out that while you’re frolicking on Florida’s white sandy beaches, I’m actually in jail. As you can see by the photo to your left, not only are there bars, but in a week of ninety-degree temps, I’ve been forced to “sunbathe.” This is NOT a beach. It’s a field of dead grass. Just because I’m lying on it doesn’t mean I like it. It’s DEAD GRASS!

And it’s only the beginning of what I’ve had to endure. My captors say they’re giving us treats, and while they make my captors’ eyes water, they do smell and taste mighty delicious to me. However, get a good look at the container they’re in, borrowed from the man we know as “Tim”:

HELLO? I am not a cat.

Also, any photographic evidence making it appear that I’m getting rest is totally fabricated. First, I stay on constant vigil at “Rex TV” trying to alert the nonstop flow of pedestrian traffic by my barking that I’m being held prisoner. So far, no man, woman, beast, mail carrier, Fedex man, UPS woman, or the plumber have done one damn thing to help me. We truly have become a society of those who look the other way.

My captors have tried to convince me that everything they do is for the good of my health. Look! Vitamins!

But even these are meant to break my spirit. Look closer at the label:

“SENIOR?” HELLO? I am NOT a senior!

Oh, sure. They’ve been giving me my sixteen ounces of delicious raw food every night at 6:30 p.m. just like you do. And when I ran out, they even took the money you left and bought more chicken necks and gizzards and wings, just like you buy. But then there are the other things they’ve tried to make me ingest. Like veggie cubes! HELLO? I am NOT a vegetarian!

I will admit that I’m intrigued by this “plain yogurt.” I’m not saying I like it. I’m saying I lick every bit of it off my food before I eat because I’m trying to decide if it’s poison or not. The other prisoners seem to really like it. Maybe it’s some kind of addictive substance the captors use to make us docile and prevent attempts at overthrowing them or escaping. I’ll continue to examine this substance closely. With my tongue.

Do you think this couch makes my butt look fat?

During my entire “staycation,” I haven’t spent time with my friend Rexford. He’s being held in a different part of The Compound with another prisoner who may be a Republican. At least they keep calling him “Maverick.” I’m pretty sure the captors are keeping Rex, Maverick, and me apart because they fear our combined power. I have glimpsed them through the Rex TV screen. (Maverick doesn’t look anything like John McCain except for some spots.) It’s possible that the two of them are plotting an escape with the help of the guy everyone calls “The Gnome.” If this happens, I hope Rexford knows I’m trapped inside the Big House with Margot and Guinness.

Mostly, I pretend to rest and go along with whatever the captors want, but I think the following photos make it clear that I’m a ball of stress while I wait for you two to break me out of here.

It’s not like there are many diversions. Not even once have I been offered a “red dot,” and the toys! Look at the pathetic condition of them. Margot and Guinness say it’s not their fault the toys are in this state, and I tend to believe them. Margot mostly stays under the bed writing emo poetry about the deplorable conditions here, and Guinness walks around in circles and bites her butt. Apparently, a family they call “the Fosters” are the ones who’ve gotten the toys in this condition, mainly the brothers Tyson and Dexter, but also this “Maverick” guy.

You know, I’m not normally one to complain, but last night was the final indignity. I was finally catching some real ZZZZZs with the other prisoners while the male captor known as “Tom” was guarding us. By guarding, I mean he was on the bed, too, pretending to sleep by closing his eyes and fake snoring. Suddenly I was rudely awakened by flashing lights when the captor known as “Becky” came in with that torture device known as “the camera.” (I’m sure I don’t have to explain the cruelty of this machine to you, as the two of you have about ten of them now, don’t you?) After subjecting me to its bright lights, she crawled into bed. But instead of confining herself to her allotted two-foot-square space as the prisoners had to be content with, she kept shifting and nudging and turning and muttering. I have never had to endure such torment in my life!

Please spring me out of this joint soon. I fear that waterboarding may be in my future, although I’m sure my captors will call it “a bath.”

Your daughter,
Sugar