Last night, I lured the cat into my bed by the cunning ploy of turning off every source of heat in the house except for the old oil heater in my room. I still had to scoop it up from the iceberg of the room it normally calls home and only managed to coax it to stay by offering it prime heater position. Even then I could feel it glaring at me most of the night and at one point it walked all over me, thus confirming physically what I had begun to suspect was to be the nature of my guardianship. The next morning, in spite of assurances from its gallivanting owner that waving two hands over it and saying shoo was the universal cat language for go to toilet, it refused to leave the house and hid under a chair instead.

However, this evening, when I parked my bike at the side of the house, all had been forgiven. I could hear it calling out a welcoming meow or two and when I opened the door for the first time ever I found it waiting in the hallway for me. It managed to conceal its disappointment that i was not its owner convincingly enough. I promised it my first born as a reward for its affection. Not very much later, it dawned on me that its increasingly loud meows and pawing at the back door was a request to answer a long delayed call of nature.

But it came and sat next to me while I was having dinner even though the gas heater was on. So maybe we’re friends after all.

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