Having her way extends to the witching hour. Between 2:45 and 3:15 AM, Frisky transforms from a lazy lap-warmer into a soprano performing a one-cat opera about The Great Hunger.
She also ensures that every black pair of pants I own looks like a yeti exploded in a yarn factory. It’s not negligence. It’s interior design. She is simply redecorating me.
And when I finally give up on the left corner of the couch and sit on the floor instead, she will eventually jump down, walk a slow circle around my lap, and curl up with a deep, rattling purr. Frisky having her way
I used to try to ignore it. I wore earplugs. I buried my head under a pillow. But Frisky is patient. She knows that I have to work in the morning. She knows that sleep deprivation is a torture tactic. Eventually, I shuffle out in the dark, pour a single tablespoon of kibble into her bowl, and she stops mid-yowl, sniffs it, and walks away without taking a bite.
Frisky looked at me, blinked slowly (the universal cat sign for "bless your heart"), and immediately knocked a pen off the counter. Having her way extends to the witching hour
Yet, every morning, I find a single, perfect, white-and-orange strand of fur floating in my coffee mug. Before I pour the coffee.
In a world where I have to be on time, productive, polite, and predictable, Frisky answers to no one. She naps in the sunbeam even when the laundry needs folding. She demands pets, then bites me exactly 2.5 seconds later because she is done . She lives entirely on her own terms. It’s not negligence
The first major negotiation happened regarding the living room sectional. I prefer the left corner. It has the perfect sightline to the television and the window. Frisky, however, prefers the left corner while I am sitting in it .