I have a cat named Frankie. Well, I guess I should actually say that my cat Frankie, has a human- which would be me.
Frankie runs the house.
I have to watch where I walk, because this feisty girl just loves to dart in between legs and randomly lay down in front of me causing me to trip. How dare I try to walk across my house when I should be giving her my complete attention?!
Frankie also makes her own rules. I liked the rule of no laying on the dinning room table, because ewww. But Frankie decided that didn’t work for her so she revised the rule. She lays on the dining room table when I’m not home and when I walk in the door, she chooses to lay there until I scoop her up, snuggle her a bit, and set her on the ground. That lasts for a whole three minutes before she jumps up again. Sigh.
Frankie also isn’t allowed in my closet. She waits for me to turn my head and become distracted before she paws and nudges the door open, quietly sneaking in. She drags out shoe boxes and tears apart the paper covering my shoes. She lays on top of my clothes, folded and lining the shelves, and leaves her long, beautiful fur all over them. Not exactly the extra accessory I’m looking for when I get dressed for the day.
Frankie has her own bed- a cozy, plush bed in the shape of a fish. She can crawl in there, snuggle into the blanket lining the bottom, and snooze away. You’d think she’d just love to be in there, but no. You would be wrong. Very wrong. I don’t think she has even gone into it once. Her real bed is my bed. She has her own spot curled up on her own pillow near my head. And heaven help me if I roll over and infringe on her space- A quick bat of her paw and a bite to my arm and I am back on my side of the bed. Frankie doesn’t play.
Which is the lesson I just learned while typing this- a quick bite to my arm and my computer and I are back on our side of the bed.
She’s lucky she’s so cute.