So… she strolls in at 11.30pm as if I she has no idea I would be waiting, toe-tapping, wondering where the hell was, worrying about her.
She treats this place like a hotel, wouldn’t dream of explaining where she has been or what she has been up to. No point in asking; as usual, she strolls into the kitchen and starts rummaging around, complaining that she’s hungry.
I tell her she should get home at a decent hour if she wants to eat. She says, no matter, she’ll go out again and pick something up. I say,
No way, not at this hour, my girl! It’s bedtime and you know it…
and that’s it… she flies off the handle, marches into the bathroom and starts throwing things around. My precious ornaments are smashed on the floor and does she care?
I tell her to stop that, she needs to respect my things. She expects a comfortable home life, would it be too much to ask for her to occasionally consider my feelings?
I say I am so angry I can hardly speak to her. I say we can talk about this again in the morning and I go to bed, furious.
I wake first, realise she’s not up yet and, me being me, I go check on her.
There she is, curled up in the handbasin, as if geckos wouldn’t melt in her mouth. I say,
Good morning, Cleo and she stretches.
All is forgiven.
Life with my cat.