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The Cat

My cat clings like worn out velcro. The fibers have been taxed from pulling her off so many times. Once she sticks, nowadays, she stays.

If there were ever a daddy’s girl in the family, it is my cat. This is the clockwork of their relationship, boiled down: once he arrives home, she runs to him and proclaims her love. I’ll take a second to admit that this is kind of cute, except when she’s being cute somewhere else (take, for example, when she finally stops kneading the blanket and sits on my lap, blessedly quiet for once in her life). He’ll say her name, she’ll yowl his (or something similar), and the whole house will be disrupted.

When he isn’t home, her time is evenly split between yelling at my mother or me, and sulking.

Right now, for instance, after letting me know how much she hates me for leaving her outside for two hours (as if she didn’t demand to go outside in the first place), she is laying against my legs and on my toes. My toes appreciate this, because they’re cold from walking barefooted through the damp grass to take the trash out, but the cat doesn’t have to know that. The cat won’t actually ever know that, because 1) I’m not going to admit that out loud, and 2) she’d probably leave just to spite me and my toes. And pee on the floor for good measure.

 

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