I’m in the doghouse with the cat…

I’M in the doghouse with the cat.

These are the little things things that you notice when there’s nothing good on telly, it’s raining too hard to go out and you have no children to distract you.

You start to obsess over things you’d normally ignore – like the way the cat turns her head so I’m constantly out of her line of sight, or the passive-aggressive way she leaves the room when I enter.

“I’m not imagining it, am I?” I ask The Fiance. “She’s giving me evils – look at those eyes!”

He shrugs and replies: “You shouldn’t have locked her out when it rained then, should you?”

He’s helpful like that. He likes to state the obvious wherever possible.

“I didn’t lock her out!” I start to wail.

“I left for work and didn’t realise she’d run out behind me! I don’t control the rain!”

He tuts and pets the cat. She’s still his friend, and he’s loving the attention.

“You poor little thing,” he says, stroking her as she bats her eyelashes at him.

He speaks in a baby voice: “You looked all miserable with your fur fluffed up from the rain.

“I wouldn’t do that to you, would I? No, I wouldn’t. No. I. Wouldn’t.”

She’s the master of this house and she knows it.

She’s divided us and she’s conquered.

“A dog wouldn’t do this,” I mutter, going back to obsessing over how I can win her back.

The Fiance sniggers.

“I just remembered the way she dried herself off on your pillow,” he explained. “That was good revenge. It was funny.”

I laugh: “It was funnier when I swapped our pillows and you didn’t notice.”

He stops laughing.

The cat runs off.

The box set of Breaking Bad I ordered needs to arrive soon. I can’t be doing with all this tension.


Article first published in The Westmorland Gazette on February 27, 2014



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