Am I the asshole?

Am I the asshole? Am I the asshole for raising hell to ensure the survival of the cat's hump dumplings currently under my protection? Good morning to everyone except people who respond to text messages with a phone call. Dexter here, the Hellhound of the Holler. I am returning to issue a humiliating confession. I'll bring you up to speed on the absolute horror my life has become since Domergue, the resident razor clawed street walker, unleashed her illegitimate sexually transmitted dependence onto my memory foam bed. After the gelatinous amniotic horrors of that midnight maternity ward, Christie finally did something remotely intelligent. She relocated the feline flashlight and her squeaking shitlings into a large crate in the corner of the living room. I initially assumed it was a quarantine zone, a necessary precaution to keep us safe from the microscopic murder beans before they opened their eyes and started performing demonic rituals. I was wrong. It wasn't a prison. It was a fortress. As I stared in disgust at Domergue's pile of vaginal varmints, I realized with horrifying clarity that if Darcy Army crawls too close to the crate, she might accidentally jostle it and traumatize the unholy tax deductions inside. So, I did what any unhinged, narcissistic, psychopathic genius would do. I planted my 80 pound ass directly in front of the front door and went completely dead weight. When Christie tried to push me aside, I unleashed a barrage of operatic shrieks, Christie sweating and cursing, finally threw her hands in the air and screamed with the power of a thousand Karens, "Fine! Get in the fucking car!" We arrived at the clinic. Usually, I am shaking like a chihuahua shitting in a thunderstorm. Not this time. I strutted into that waiting room like a middle-aged dad stepping onto a freshly mowed lawn in a brand new pair of white new balances. I flanked the cat carrier, daring any of the trembling poodles in the lobby to make a move. Then came the exam room. The vet, a man who has historically treated my prostate like a carnival game, walked in and cheerfully reached into the crate to pull out the orange, muling, vaginal destroyer. Absolutely the fuck not. I stepped directly between Dr. Todd and the carrier, planted my paws and body blocked the metal exam table. I shot him a withering look that said, "You so much as graze these fuzzy fuck trophies with your invasive thermometer wielding hands, and I will remove your fingers at the knuckles." Dr. Todd froze. I watched his every move with unblinking murderous intent. I know what you're thinking. You think I'm getting attached, or bonding, or playing surrogate daddy to these squirming semen demons. Let me be crystal clear. I am a cold-blooded killer. I'm merely protecting my future prey until they're large enough to provide a sporting chase. I don't want anyone else tenderizing my meat. So, I put it to you, the unwashed masses of TikTok. Am I the asshole for establishing a heavily fortified perimeter and preventing an opportunistic sadist in scrubs from manhandling the loin fruit currently under my jurisdiction? Dexter out.