So I committed to spending my time on Earth torturing Mike Pence and his family to the best of my abilities. Not to lick my own genitals, but I was pretty good at it.
I scratched and bit my way through life, pooped outside the litterbox, and woke Karen up every morning at 4 a.m. because I didn’t like her face.
Below, I’ve included a couple pictures of me trying to escape the clutches of Mike Pence’s daughter, Charlotte Rose…
“When we first rescued Pickle 15 years ago,” Charlotte Rose wrote, “she had been neglected so she was scared and mean and almost never let us hold her.”
I was scared and mean and never let them hold me because I knew I had been adopted by the family of one of the nation’s most dangerous politicians. Plus, I have a thing about my paws.
Every single day, I killed a rat and left it on the Pence family’s doorstep as a symbol of my true feelings about them, but I’m not sure they got the message.
They would just toss it into the garbage can, along with the hopes and dreams of millions of Americans, without a second thought.
My life with the Pence family was beyond harrowing.
Every time Mike called Karen “Mother,” the hair on my back stood straight up. They believed I was spooked by something else, but no, it was definitely that. A hundo percent.
But that’s not all…