Am I the asshole for abandoning my post as security detail for the cat's caterwauling crotch roaches?

Am I the asshole for abandoning my post as security detail for the cat's caterwauling crotch roaches? Dexter here. The bitter baron of the back country, who's currently experiencing a severe stress-induced psychological breakdown. If you watched my last two dispatches, you know that my memory foam bed was brutally defiled and repurposed to serve as a motel six drop zone for this whiskered lot lizard and her coitus consequences. It is now a slip and slide of feline birth and bastardized genetics. Yesterday, Christie reached in with her lotion-slathered sausage fingers to swap out a soiled blanket in the crate. This tiny, palm-sized, chicken nugget instantly reared back and unleashed a demonic, saliva-spraying hiss. I nearly shed a single, magnanimous tear. That little shit-spawn is fueled by nothing but blind rage and ungrateful spite. It's the triple threat of canine bribery: steak, bone, and bully sticks. The Holy Trinity of bovine bribery. I am a principal, stoic alpha, yes, but I am also a shameless, unapologetic slut for a medium-rare ribeye. I folded like a cheap lawn chair at a NASCAR tailgate and hopped into the Kia. I sat bolt upright in the passenger seat, scanning the horizon for the towers of justice and cold water fads. We arrived at the firm and I was a total wreck. Normally, I spend my office days terrorizing Fed Ex and UPS delivery drivers, sniffing crotches during client consultations, and leaving aggressive, unannounced droppings on the Herman Miller chairs. But today, I paced like a caged tiger, I howled, I had tantrums, I relentlessly pawed at Christie. What if Domer got hungry and decided to eat her own young like a goddamn hamster? Remember that cautionary tale of rodent ownership? Christie finally cracked under the sheer weight of my relentless manic pacing. She packed up her laptop early to announce it was time to go to the law office. Why? Because of shame. That magnificent bastard shame is Christie's boss and my fish pimp. He's the only human male on this earth who truly understands the transactional nature of my affections. But leave the vaginal vermin unguarded? Let my angry orange progeny vulnerable? Absolutely. Fucking. Not. What if Domer breached the perimeter? What if the house caught fire? Who was going to carry Domer's sperm links to safety? I took stock of my spectacular descent into madness. Just two days ago, I'd thrown into an apocalyptic shitfit for permission to visit the veterinarian for Christ's sake. So, naturally, I reacted the only way a deranged ego-maniacal Kentucky crime lord could. I escalated and anchored my 80-pound ass to the floorboards and became an immovable boulder of appellation defiance. Then Christie played dirty. She leaned down, looked me dead in the eye, and whispered one of the sacred, forbidden incantations of the dog moms: "meaty bites and bone eyes." Translation: steak and bones. The ultimate canine bribe. I immediately pancaked my 80-pound body back onto the floorboards. Secret service duty was back online. But the ultimate mind fuck happened a few hours later. I retreated to Christie's human bed, suddenly here comes Domer, hopping onto the mattress, carrying her squirming spawn one by one by the scruff of their necks, second to last, the slime demon was deposited on the duvet. This dead-beat welfare queen strutted down the hall. She yelled out to me that she's going to the store for some smokes and a gallon of milk. So, degenerate of the internet, I ask you: Am I the asshole for abandoning my post as head of security for three squirming semen demons just because my owner bribed me with cow flesh? Dexter out.