And honestly? I wouldn't have it any other way.
After exactly four minutes of this psychic assault, I feel a phantom pressure on my leg. I get up to get a glass of water. When I return—poof. Frisky is stretched out like a furry starfish, belly up, paws spread, taking up 90% of the cushion. She looks up at me as if to say, "Oh, were you sitting here? That's weird. I don't remember your name being on the deed."
Having her way extends to the witching hour. Between 2:45 and 3:15 AM, Frisky transforms from a lazy lap-warmer into a soprano performing a one-cat opera about The Great Hunger. Frisky having her way
She finds the single most echoey spot in the hallway—usually right outside my bedroom door—and sings the song of her people. It is a mournful wail that translates roughly to: "I can see the bottom of my food bowl. The abyss stares back. I am wasting away to nothing but fur and spite."
In a world where I have to be on time, productive, polite, and predictable, Frisky answers to no one. She naps in the sunbeam even when the laundry needs folding. She demands pets, then bites me exactly 2.5 seconds later because she is done . She lives entirely on her own terms. And honestly
The most subtle way Frisky has her way is through the glittering art of cat hair distribution. I have a lint roller. I have a vacuum with a pet-hair attachment. I have tried everything.
She didn't want the food. She just wanted me to get up . I get up to get a glass of water
She also ensures that every black pair of pants I own looks like a yeti exploded in a yarn factory. It’s not negligence. It’s interior design. She is simply redecorating me.
She has been knocking pens off counters ever since. And pillows off couches. And plants off shelves. And, last week, my entire carefully folded pile of laundry onto the dusty floor.
She doesn't say thank you. She doesn't say sorry for the 3 AM concert or the ruined rug.