Cat Monologue 6: The New Dog

It's been a long couple of months, my readers. I shall do my best to recount these events as if they have only just happened and are still fresh in my mind.
I took your advice, my readership, and the course of history has been unalterably changed accordingly.
To recap upon the last episode I published: along with Max the golden retriever, my daft owners planned to get a new dog, thus at least doubling the annoyance level in the house.
You advised me to stay and find a way to get rid of the new arrival to the house. Well, the beast arrived, the beast arrived!
A giant wobbling, idiotic, stupid, pea-brained, oafish, worthless, lump of puppy came through the door one afternoon, and I knew my golden days were over.
You see, Max and I have always somewhat had a truce. We ignored each other for the past four years, ever since they brought the big bumbling dolt through that front door, and went our separate ways. He didn't bother me; I didn't bother him. I sat typing up my memoirs in peace and tranquility while he--well, he did whatever it is that dogs do: bark, drool, vomit, defecate, dig.
But when Trixie walked through the door, everything changed. And I mean everything.
She's a freaking menace! She's chewed up everything in the house, pooped and peed all over my study, and nearly eaten me on various occasions! And I haven't been able to do anything to convince my owners that having the second dog is a bad idea.
And if you thought that was bad, just imagine my horror when Max forgot our long years of trusting truce, and instead helped little Trixie heckle me, hunt me, and chase me all over the place.
I've had to relocate my study. Now, I climb up into the attic through the top window when no one's paying attention, and I type my memoirs up here. It's stuffy, but it has its perks: namely, mice. They leave droppings everywhere and they're so easy to track. It's a great hunting ground. I can't believe I didn't think of this earlier.
Anyway, back to the narrative.
When they brought Trixie to the house that fateful afternoon, I got to work. I arranged traps of all sorts to make it look like she's been getting into tons of trouble, ripping things up, tracking in dirt, peeing and pooping everywhere.
My plans backfired. I'm about to hang myself out of desperation, my readers. I just don't know if I can take it.
You see, my strategies would only work if Trixie was generally well-behaved. As it is, she's done three times worse than I would have framed her for.
But the humans apparently don't give a flying hoop of CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED! They suffer through the torment of having this menace around to this day! I'm getting really sick and tired of this. They turn a blind eye to everything Trixie does, whereas if I step one foot into her kennel, they put me on the chopping block!
It appears that I cannot use any powers of persuasion upon my human owners. My subtle strategies aren't working, which leaves me with two options:
a) stick it out and suffer.
b) get rid of the dog myself, the old-fashioned way.
c) run away from home.

I contemplate these options every time I see that monstrous horror they call an animal.

-Signing off,
Chester Felix (the cat)