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My cat’s pet

Meet Squeaky.  She thinks she owns me.  She has been my cat since she was a teeny little four-week old baby with ear mites, fleas, worms and a nasty respiratory infection when we rescued her from the side of the road somewhere.  For a great many years, she behaved like a normal cat, but in recent years, there’s been a significant shift in our roles.  It may be due to her advanced age (excuse me, she is 16 years young), but my family advises me that it’s far more likely that I’ve finally become a crazy cat lady.  Whatever, man.  Squeaky loves me more than they do.

Squeaky knows what’s best for me.  She knows that during daylight hours, I should recline on the couch and provide a squishy, warm body pillow for her.  She knows that during the night, I should be lying in bed with her nestled under my arm, gazing adoringly at me as her precious little head rests on my shoulder.  I am terribly remiss about gazing adoringly back at her, but she is good enough to remind me by tapping my face with her furry little hand.  I am required to keep an eye on food, water and litter boxes, but Squeaky would never deign to speak of such things.  She employs her underling cats to remind me, should I become neglectful.

Squeaky allows me to rub her belly and almost never digs her claws into my legs when she walks laps on my …lap (weird).  Squeaky keeps my diet on track by demanding  any leftover milk in my cereal bowl.  She never, ever, allows me to sleep on my stomach, because it’s bad for my back (and also because it’s hard for her to nestle that way).  She understands that when I say “kitty, kitty,” that I am talking to her, not either of the other cats that she allows to live here.  She also threatens said cat interlopers from interacting with me, since it’s well-known among felines that humans only contain enough love for one cat.  Squeaky’s love is boundless and unconditional, provided I don’t move around too much while sitting on the couch.  Squeaky will protect me from my husband, should he have the unbelievable nerve to try to hug me or lie beside me in bed.   If I happen to forget that she doesn’t want to move, she delicately screeches at me (English translation is not suitable for all audiences.  She talks like a sailor.)

Squeaky has dedicated her entire existence to making me the perfect pet…owner.  I insist that I’m really not a crazy cat lady, but it now occurs to me that I did spend about half an hour trying to sleep with back spasms last night because Squeaky didn’t want me to move.  Perhaps it’s time for an intervention.

(Squeaky approves this blog.  Because I’m typing it on a laptop.  On the couch.)

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