L B

You don’t have a cat. Lucky you. This is what you have to put up with if you do.

“What are you doing with that towel?” I ask.

Little Bear is the cat who lives at our house. She’s sitting on a white towel. “Who do you think you are? Get out of my face,” L B says to me. She will be upset if I say she’s my cat. That’s nonsense as far as she is concerned. “Nobody owns me,” she says, “and don’t you forget it.” Ssssh, don’t tell her I said this. She’s my cat whether she likes it or not.

“Look we need to talk,” I say to L B.

“Talk, talk, talk, that’s all you do.”

“That towel is mine.”

“No big deal. Let’s just say that I’m borrowing it for a while.”

“It was nice and clean. Now you made it dirty.”

“Yes. What of it.” That is not a question. It’s a challenge. Then she gives me that face. You cat people know what face I’m talking about. That face that says she’s smarter than me and I had better watch out.

I don’t want to get in any deeper. I’ve been there before and let’s just say it isn’t pleasant. I leave her be, knowing I had better mind my p’s-and-q’s, or I will be in trouble.

Non-cat owners, see what I mean. Uh-oh, I got to go. Here she comes and she’ll be reading this. She’s a speed reader too.

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