I scoop your cat's litter box every three days or so, the box clumped with perfumed turds. She's been vomiting less, though I think she pukes up hair balls, and that is because you never brush her. You're over an ocean so far away that I picture a flying cigar tin, a toilet bowl sea, you drawn as a Sharpie doodle in your seat, drooling in your sleep. I brush your cat for you. She begins a mewl that's a bit like a quack or a yip, and proceeds to rub herself all over me until the offending undercoat mingles with my eyelashes. Your roommate thinks I am disgusting for letting her talk to me like that. He thinks, as you must know, that you are disgusting.
I do this, pet her, walk with a bag of her shit, pour her special low-carb food into a bowl, because no one else will. Your roommate calls your cat a "needy dimwit" and "a waste of fur," and I wonder who else he is talking to when he speaks that way. I have pulled out about two pounds of undercoat with a new brush I bought for her. She is difficult to brush when she is so happy, for all the tiny tremors rippling from her tail. It saddens me to see her happy by scant affection. I am overwhelmed by her flagging her bent tail, the mottled skin by the base like a lewd wink.
When I come by, your roommate is always there playing video games, swatting her off the couch with a foot. He often cooks with a slow-cooker so your house always smells like stale pork or onions. The dishes haven't moved for two weeks. You'll be gone for another month. I wonder if I should offer to help him clean up. I sometimes buy special treats for the cat-- felt mice, laser pointers-- and I'll pick up something for your house, though it's never been my place. Paper towels, a scented candle, matches.
Your roommate doesn't say much but a hello, and a notification of where your cat last puked a hair ball. "By the steps." "I heard some hacking near the closet last night." So I find it and clean it. I return to her with the brush and comb out clumps of fur, white and specked with tiny black dots. I learn from the internet these are bits of dried blood and flea feces. I've given her a flea remedy I bought from the grocery store, where I also bought a disposable camera and dark chocolates. These are for your roommate. I will try to get us drunk. I will try to brush his hair. I will try to take pictures of him passed out, the cat rubbing her face against his toes, or squatting on his chest, peering at his face, his heaviness.
I do this, pet her, walk with a bag of her shit, pour her special low-carb food into a bowl, because no one else will. Your roommate calls your cat a "needy dimwit" and "a waste of fur," and I wonder who else he is talking to when he speaks that way. I have pulled out about two pounds of undercoat with a new brush I bought for her. She is difficult to brush when she is so happy, for all the tiny tremors rippling from her tail. It saddens me to see her happy by scant affection. I am overwhelmed by her flagging her bent tail, the mottled skin by the base like a lewd wink.
When I come by, your roommate is always there playing video games, swatting her off the couch with a foot. He often cooks with a slow-cooker so your house always smells like stale pork or onions. The dishes haven't moved for two weeks. You'll be gone for another month. I wonder if I should offer to help him clean up. I sometimes buy special treats for the cat-- felt mice, laser pointers-- and I'll pick up something for your house, though it's never been my place. Paper towels, a scented candle, matches.
Your roommate doesn't say much but a hello, and a notification of where your cat last puked a hair ball. "By the steps." "I heard some hacking near the closet last night." So I find it and clean it. I return to her with the brush and comb out clumps of fur, white and specked with tiny black dots. I learn from the internet these are bits of dried blood and flea feces. I've given her a flea remedy I bought from the grocery store, where I also bought a disposable camera and dark chocolates. These are for your roommate. I will try to get us drunk. I will try to brush his hair. I will try to take pictures of him passed out, the cat rubbing her face against his toes, or squatting on his chest, peering at his face, his heaviness.
