My new life is a buddy cop film in the making.

I was just in the bathroom (which is how I should begin all of these entries from now on) and wondering what to write about. Naturally your best thoughts come to you on the toilet. There’s just something about tending to things that don’t require concentration (yes, I think about things way too much, but even I don’t overt-analyse how I poop (heh, anal :3)) that facilitates lucid thought. To start one of these I usually need a kernel of an idea and where do you find more kernels than in a bathroom (I’ll stop being juvenile and gross for the next 30 seconds. Promise)? One simple seed is enough to kickstart my rambling stream of consciousness and get me through the next half an hour. Maybe you could write about living with a cat I thought. Brilliant idea, me, it’ll satisfy the hordes of cat people (in an affinity sense, not the anthropomorphic human/feline hybrid sense) who read this site dailyTHINK OF THE RATINGS! I thought to nobody in particular.

It was an easy conceit, I’d start with some cutesy exaggeration about how the cat is always stealing my computer chair. It’s half true. I’ll often walk into the office (we have an office in our house. Oh, we fancy now) and that little ginger fuzzloaf will be curled up on my butt’s favourite locale. I ask her to move, but she just meows. I tell her to use her words. Again, she just meows. I try to sweep her off the chair dismissively, but she curls over and exposes her belly, as if I was going to reward her annexation of my battlestation throne with scratches to her delicate underside. I tell her we can share, I’ll take the front half and she can take the back. I figure the chair could use an additional pillow, especially a whiskered fuzzy orange one. Once more, she just meows. So I back up to the chair, place my hands on the arm rests and slowly lower myself onto her back, as if mounting a trusty steed. She bucks like a bronco and meows once more, but less in a benign appreciative fashion and more of a slighted frightened yelp. It’s not fair. First my daddy refused to buy me a pony, now the trusty guardian of our home refuses to let me mount her for patrol. How am I supposed to complete my RCMP audition video now? She’ll jump off the chair in a huff, then get distracted by her weird little chicken toy.

See, an easy way to pad out time for this entry. A flawless idea. I came out of the bathroom to start my writing only to find an object in my path. She was lying on my chair.

It’s a learning curve for both of us. In general she’s a sweet natured kit’n, if a bit needy. She’s used to having attention on tap which I’m flat out incapable of giving. I can’t always be petting, I have other important things to do like writing about my inability to pet her all the time. It gets hard when I’m trying to sleep but she’s yowling at the door all night. It’s been over a week and she’s still set on denying me sleep in exchange for denying her access to the bedroom while we attempt to sleep. Then there are other times when we can just hang out and everything’s copacetic. I’ll be watching Netflix and she’ll curl up on a box or sit up on her butt to watch with me. It feels like a case of Stockholm syndrome in the making, but honestly I don’t know which one of us is the prisoner. I’ve never been a cat person in my life. I’ve got no issue with them, but no affinity for them either. Thing is, her and I need to make it work. We’re both head over heels in love with her owner and neither of us plan on going anywhere, so I guess that makes us family now.


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