Not the food. The food combines all the goodness of both shredded meat chunks and bread particulates. Allow me to introduce you to Meatloaf:

Meatloaf is the office cat at the shitty office I work at. All offices that have cats are, by definition, shitty offices.

Quick facts:
Office + cat(s) = shitty office
Home + cat(s) = shitty home
Bonfire + cat(s) = good bonfire

Meatloaf isn't actually the cat's name, it's actually Milo. Due to the cat's steadfast obesity however, I've given it the moniker of Meatloaf. Although if I had my way the cat would remain nameless, and would only be referred to as "Cat" or "The Pile".

This worthless creature has turned my once-supple hands into throbbing, bloody stumps unfit for touching even myself. Once upon a time my clothes used to be made of such industry standard fabrics as cotton and polyester, but now they've been reduced to being mostly made of oily strands of demon hair. In light of these facts Meatloaf has become my sworn enemy and the bane of my existence.

Intense zoological studies have concluded that cats are extremely worthless creatures that consider themselves even better than the caregivers that are responsible for the continuation of their barren, meaningless existence. Even with this scientific knowledge in mind, Meatloaf somehow manages to set a new all-time low for cats everywhere. I've never seen this walking tumbleweed ever move about for more than six minutes without having to resort to a two hour nap to recharge it batteries, which I presume are powered by sleep and the intense anguish the cat causes to other living beings.

Even though my enemy can't be looked upon by others without causing a feeling of disgust, and even though it shits in a box, it still feels that it's somehow better than me. I know not under what circumstances this being came to call this office home, but archeological inquiries state that it has been here for at least twelve human years, putting it at 439 cat years approximately. Although the true age of the cat can only be determined by cutting it in half and counting its rings.

I have no idea about what kind of cat Meatloaf is; some say calico, some say slut, I guess retarded, but no one knows for sure. One thing that is known is that it appears to live forever, and has probably tormented countless offices and indian tribes throughout it's timeline in the San Diego area, and will continue to do so for countless centuries to come.

Everyday I arrive at work I feel a sadness begin to fill me. Sure, part of the reason is that I hate my job and loathe the people I work for, but I attribute most of this sadness to the realization that I see Meatloaf alive every time I step foot into our building. Everything has to die at some point, but it seems like my patience and physical well-being will long be dead at the claws of Meatloaf long before it itself kicks the bucket.

Feel pity for the cat if you must, but as much as the both of us have sworn destruction upon each other, the fact is that both the cat and I know how truly awful its life is.

I've complied a list of ways in which Meatloaf both offends me and shames itself:

• Not knowing the exact breed of cat Meatloaf is, I can only estimate this figure, but I guesstimate that it is at least 5 pounds into the category of obese. It appears to only get one bowl of cat food per day, but somehow this meager amount of food translates into Meatloaf taking the form of a spilled a bowl of Jell-O made with hair anytime it's lying down.
• The odor emanating from the cat's mouth every time it meows, yawns, or bites you in a fit of rage is quite offensive. The only thing I can liken it to is the smell of the inside of a chemical toilet after many uses. This leads to only one explanation: fourteen construction workers piss and shit into Meatloaf's mouth on a daily basis.
• Meatloaf constantly gets its own claws caught on either the carpet or chairs, leading to embarrassing bouts of it being stuck in funny positions trying to fight free. Inevitably this leads to the claws falling out of the cat, which explains the unknowing treasure hunt of finding claws all over the office.

Although I occasionally will set aside my anger towards Meatloaf in an effort to promote a short-term peace, this is rarely a good idea. Moments of serene, everyday petting can quickly turn into violent, bloody, smelly, attacks for no given reason. Purring is normally associated with a cat being happy, but Meatloaf simply uses this as a ploy to lure you and make you feel secure before tearing into your flesh, with claws that will probably just fall out in your skin. Smacking Meatloaf in the face does seem to end these bouts quite quickly, however.

The only thing that seems to bring solace to the cat, is the simple joy of rubbing its disgusting face again inanimate objects. My desk, my personal belongings, my chair, it matters very little to Meatloaf, as long as stinky saliva and 450 strands of cat hair end up on whatever the subject of the face assault is.

Out of morbid curiosity and the desire to understand more about my foe, I rubbed the skin of one of my coworkers with the metal brush with which the demon cat seems to use in some sort of auto-erotic face masturbatory activities. He informed me that it hurt. This is troubling news, as I now know that my arch nemesis thrives on and loves pain. All my attacks will simply result in pleasure for the sick, hairy fuck. My psychological attacks should remain as effective as always however. Therefore I will just have to double-up on my soft, demoralizing whispers that I feed to Meatloaf on a daily basis.

"Worst cat ever. Worst cat ever." Seems to work pretty well.

In a last ditch effort to humiliate my opponent, I shall leave you with a photo of the hair we've collected from chairs around the office and from the cat itself. For size reference, I've placed the collection next to the demon spawn itself.