When I adopted Frisky—a tortoiseshell cat with the eyes of a disgruntled Victorian orphan and the attitude of a rockstar trashing a hotel room—I thought I was doing a noble thing. "I will give her a loving home," I told the shelter volunteer. "I will provide structure, discipline, and warmth."
Yet, every morning, I find a single, perfect, white-and-orange strand of fur floating in my coffee mug. Before I pour the coffee.
There is a certain point in every pet owner’s life when you have to admit the truth: You don’t own the pet. The pet owns you.
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. Frisky having her way
She has been knocking pens off counters ever since. And pillows off couches. And plants off shelves. And, last week, my entire carefully folded pile of laundry onto the dusty floor.
She doesn’t ask to join me. She doesn’t meow politely. Instead, she sits exactly three feet away, staring at the spot where my thigh meets the cushion. She performs what I call the "Surgical Stare."
She doesn't say thank you. She doesn't say sorry for the 3 AM concert or the ruined rug. When I adopted Frisky—a tortoiseshell cat with the
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.
For me, that moment of clarity came at 6:00 AM on a Tuesday, and her name is Frisky.
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. Before I pour the coffee
Does your pet rule the roost? Tell me your "Frisky" stories in the comments below.
Here is the thing about letting "Frisky have her way." It sounds frustrating. And sometimes, it is. But mostly? It’s liberating.
After exactly four minutes of this psychic assault, I feel a phantom pressure on my leg. I get up to get a glass of water. When I return—poof. Frisky is stretched out like a furry starfish, belly up, paws spread, taking up 90% of the cushion. She looks up at me as if to say, "Oh, were you sitting here? That's weird. I don't remember your name being on the deed."