May 19, 2015
Alarm rings at 5am.
A sure sign of the end of a vacation.
Ok, now what?
Oh yeah. Work.
Hey, I have a few hours yet.
Is the coffee ready yet?
Shoot. I forgot to turn it on.
Coffee pot slightly sluggish.
What the hell? It is only 10 years old.
Cat is stalking me.
Let me out.
Cat slinks out, hesitating, cursing me. Why? Why does it have to rain?
Jump in the shower.
GRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! Cold water!
I call for the cat.
Hey, Half Pint, can we talk?
He says: “Not until you feed me.”
“No”, he says.”Cats don’t talk.”
I feed him.
He winks at me.
“Hey, Chicken Butt, you really need to learn a few lessons.
1. You never own a cat. A cat owns you.
2. Cats are so soft, and cuddly, until they have had enough, and then! Claws, baby, claws!
3. If you go to work today, I will hate you, and will pout when you return.”
How can an individual who has just come back from a few days off, feel happy, when the cat insists on the guilt trip?
I rip through the day, doing my best, in spite of the throbbing thoughts of the cat, planning my demise.
Reluctantly I venture home at 5pm.
No cat in sight.
I am tired.
I change into my pjs.
The phone rings.
It’s the cat.
I tell myself cats don’t talk.
There is no need to spend my time worrying about a cat who insists on torturing me.
I reluctantly pick up the phone.
The cat says: “Hey, can you open the front door? It’s raining out here?”
I am so happy he is back.
Or am I?
That damn cat!
I love him.
I have to.
After all, he owns me.