Day 1: Thursday, 10 May – Lynn & Joe have left the building. “Just a short weekend away,” they said, “for Joe’s birthday.”
“Please feed the cat.”
Day 2: Friday, 11 May –
- 4:03am: She’s awake.
- 4:09am: I wonder if the neighbours can really hear #NotMyCat’s meowing?
- 4:11am: She’s still awake. She is sitting on my head.
- 4:13am: This tinned cat food stinks. I wonder if the neighbours can see me through the kitchen window, feeding #NotMyCat in my underwear. I’m in my underwear. Not #NotMyCat.
- 4:14am: If I eat a pie in solidarity with #NotMyCat, will she shut up?
- 4:16am: No, she won’t.
- 4:43am: She’s fallen off the cat tree. Again.
- 5:01am: I hope my sister wasn’t too attached to that vase.
- 5:34am: I have locked myself in the bathroom and tied pillows around my head. Please stop screaming!
- 6:59am: Sleep is impossible. Guess I better clean the litter box.
- 7:03am: How does such a small creature shit so much without actually imploding?
- 7:21am: Good news! She’s asleep. Bad news! She’s asleep on my feet and I need the loo. At this stage I will risk complete renal failure and/or wetting the bed, just so long as she doesn’t wake up.
- 21:20: I have not left the
housebed all day, except for those times when my hostage taker has run to the kitchen, screaming to be fed.
Day 3: Saturday, 12 May – The Battle of Wills
Woke up at 3:39am to use the loo. Toyed briefly with the idea of waking the feline terrorist. Too risky.
7:30am rolls around. The terrorist is on guard. Do not be fooled by the closed eyes.
It is clear to me now that I am a prisoner here, and will never be allowed to leave.
I am her slave. My existence is a function of hers, my reasons to live solely to provide food and warm legs to sleep on.
If I am to survive I will have to let go of such concepts as freedom to move, spontaneity, outside, and free will.
Day 4: Sunday, 13 May –
It’s. Goddamned. 3:09am. I have to be up for work in a few hours, you cruel, vicious, loathsome, furry, cuddly, adorable monster.
- 5:00am: Ripped open a sachet of prawn & tuna a little more forcefully than was strictly required. Most of the gravy ended up on me. I now smell like a dead fish.
- 8:09am: On my way to work with a severe sleep deficit/grumpiness surfeit. The cute #NotMyCat posts are done. We’re through. I want a divorce. You will now be known as #ThatDamnedCat
- 08:30 through to 18:14: workworkworkwork
- 18:15: (running out the office) Shit! #ThatDamnedCat needs food and attention or she will destroy everything and burn the village to the ground! I’m outta here!
- 19:01: She’s curled up in my lap, asleep. This must be love or some other closely related terrorist activity.
Day 5: Monday, 14 May –
- 02:51: WTFH??? It’s still yesterday! No! Go back to sleep you miserable clawbucket! I can’t hear you! I can’t hear you! I can’t hear you! I can’t hear you! Nahnahnahnahnahoooweeoooono no no no go back to sleeeeeeeep!
- 08:15: Look at me when I plead with you! I’m off to work. Your real parents will be home today. This has been hell. Also…
…I love you.
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