The Cat Who Knew Better

Oh, there she goes again.

By she, I mean Amy — my owner. She’s blushing like a firework and, frankly, I wish she wouldn’t. Not with him.

Finley.

Ugh. Tall, lanky, perpetually unwashed. The sort of man who smells faintly of patchouli and poor decisions. Sometimes I wish I could speak her language, because my meows only ever earn me a distracted, “You’re so cute,” while she continues being deeply embarrassing. I have never witnessed such confident nonchalance in my ten years on this planet. It is clear the man doesn't like her as much as she likes him.

I remember the first time she brought him home. It was midnight, and I was in the middle of a beautiful dream where I finally caught that dreadful mouse from the basement. Before I knew it, I was rudely shoved off the bed while they began moving strangely and making equally strange noises. I spent the night on the couch with the dog, though I did eventually chase him away when he started snoring.

I swore: never again.

She brought him home again. Earlier this time. They tried to push me off the bed. I scratched back. That held them off briefly — until the noises started again, under the sheets. I decided it wasn’t worth the fight and left. The dog got off the couch without protest but I didn't sleep that night.

In the morning, Finley emerged without his human clothes and I found this offensive. How dare he? I don’t parade around naked — I wear my fur with dignity. He took a liking to the dog. Unsurprisingly, the dog decided to be a traitor all in the name of a snack. When Finley approached me, I hissed. He got the message that I wasn't so easily manipulated.

Amy followed him out, glowing. She couldn't stop clinging on to him. I almost coughed up my fur bull with all the sweet names she was calling him. For his part, he barely noticed. It was clear this was just a short-term thing for him.

“Come on, Amy,” I tried to tell her. “You’re better than this.”

Clearly, all she heard was a few meows because she kissed my forehead instead.

“He’s so cute,” Finley said. "Although, he's clearly got an attitude."

I frowned at him and sighed heavily. Of course Amy didn’t listen to me. Typical of someone in lust. So, begrudgingly, I let her carry on. As long as I received my snacks and toys, I could tolerate most things.

Then one night, after a little chase with the mouse from the basement, I walked in to see her crying into her pillow.

I sat at the edge of the bed and watched. I already knew why.

“He isn’t texting back,” she said to herself, eyes swollen. “All I asked was for him to tell me if we’re together or not.”

I sighed. Humans are exhausting.

Still, I crawled closer, gave her a gentle smack with my paw for being ridiculous, then curled into the hollow of her stomach.Yes, she was being a bit annoying but I owed her my life. Amy had rescued me as a kitten. I remember walking up to her — filthy, flea-ridden hoping to get just a bit of food. Her friend had told her to leave me but she didn’t. She gave me a lot more than food that day- she gave me a home.

She cried into my fur and while I hate being wet, I allowed it. My dislike for Finley only grew more.

The next morning, I woke up to her screaming into her phone. I knew who she was talking to.

“But I don’t understand! You said you loved me!”

The call ended with Finley hanging up. I growled.

In the kitchen, when I walked in to have my breakfast, the dog whined.

“I hate her like this,” he said.

“So do I,” I replied, eating my chicken pâté. And yes, I like pâté.

A week later, I thought the storm had calmed down when I heard the front door unlock hurriedly. Within minutes, I was shoved off the bed again.

There he was: Finley, half naked. Possibly half-drunk.

“Please be with me,” Amy whispered to him. He said nothing but kept on kissing her.

I left in anger. I didn’t sleep. I stared out the window at the dark and the glittering stars. Even the mouse stayed hidden that night knowing I would eat the if they didn't. (The mouse never told me its gender, so I won’t assume.) The dog just sat quiet. He knew I was extremely unhappy.

The next morning came with shouting, tears and pleas. I was in the hallway just finished with the restroom when Finley came out of the bedroom with Amy close behind him.

“Why do you do this to me?” Amy pleaded.

“I told you,” Finley said. “I’m not looking for anything serious.”

He stopped when he saw me.

I had endured months of interrupted sleep for a man who couldn’t tell baba ganoush from tagine. In that moment, as I looked into his eyes, something in me snapped. I launched myself at him, claws out. I attacked his face first, then scratched him everywhere I could although I avoided his lice infested hair. I never risk my health. Safety always comes first even in war.

Finley tried to fight me off but couldn't. All he did was scream and flee the house when he had the chance.

Amy stared after him, gobsmacked. I don't what she was more shocked by- by my reaction or his.

Before she could speak, I went into the bedroom, dragged one of her journals down the hall and dropped it at her feet. The cover read: YOU ARE WORTH IT, in pink.

She laughed and with happy tears rolling down her cheeks, took me from the floor and cuddled into me.

We never heard from Finley again.

I never lost my beauty sleep again.

Let's call that a win.