I have yet another man in my life. He is fuzzy, wide eyed and enjoys hiding under my bed. His name is Henry is he is my best friend Alicia’s cat. I am entertaining him (or really, he is entertaining me) while she is on vacation in her native England (jolly good, G’vnor!)
I treat Henry like a person. I talk to him, tell him “bless you” when he sneezes and yell at him when he somehow manages the seemingly impossible leap from the floor to my closet clothes rod.
Today, I was awoken to him crawling on my face. “Look at me! Love me!” he seemed to say. I tried to ignore his mews for another few minutes of precious sleep but he seemed content on remaining perched on my face. He stood on my sink and watched me do my hair and then leaped out at me from my shower curtain when I thought he was in the kitchen. He is also jealous of my laptop. Whenever I sprawl on the couch and type (my usual position) he likes to lie on my neck, blocking my vision and windpipes.
Interestingly, yesterday, he found something I had mentally abandoned as devoured by the legendary dust bunnies. Somehow he had managed to dig out an old cat scratching pad that was lodged underneath my desk. Smart pussy.
“How did you find that?” I asked.
He rolled over, exposing his little belly, as a reply.
I love this little boy. He is the only true man for me.
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