Turns out that Edie is a pretty little nothing of a cat.
Well — an evil, pretty nothing. Sometimes I will be dead asleep, and she will attack the balls of my feet with a sharp claw, jolting me awake as if there is some kind of emergency that needs my immediate attention, and then when I’m there, it’s just her taking a bath.
A lot of times, I’ll forget about Edie, and then Mr. Right-Click will come home, and it’s like, oh yeah, we have a cat, because she’s rolling around, flirting around, like, hey! look at me! I’m cuuuute! look at me, man thing! I’m cuuute!
I named Edie after Edie Sedgwick and everyone scoffed at the time — Mini calls her Baby Cat and a lot of the time so do we. But I think it’s pretty fucking clear now that I was on the right track with her name. I know what I’m doing with names. If that cat could somehow figure out her way around a liquid liner and learn how to balance a highball on her paw, that could be her in the above picture.
But instead, when she gets tired of flirting with all of the boys in the house, or attacking my roses, she climbs up on top of her perch and gets some space, and looks down on the rest of us, or takes a nap. She’s kind of getting too big for her perch, but she doesn’t let that stop her. She just has her paws hang off and readjusts, keeps on snoozing.
Meanwhile, I look at the trains, legos, cars and boomerangs, remote controls, iPhones, laptops and headphones and other sundry things cluttering my own bed — the goldfish crackers, tater tots, and strawberries crushed into my carpet, and I kind of wish I had a perch, too.
Where’s my fucking perch?
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