The whole house had to be Mitsy's playground. She saw no reason why I should have it and not her.
The linen closet was her napping spot if she so chose, though when I found her there, I took her out and laundered whatever she left her fur on, much to her indignity.
When I opened the fridge door, it was of course to get her something to eat, not myself.
The electric can opener whir had her mad-dashing to the kitchen, yowling up a storm for cat food even though she'd just eaten ten minutes before, and because I had no right to open a can of something for myself or anyone else in the house.
Fresh air did her more good than it did me. The back deck was built for her and her alone to enjoy, and the flowers were planted for her to sniff on her daily rounds, and of course, God made the sweet sunshine just to shine on The Mitsy whenever she took a stroll.
Her litter box had to be hidden from evil eyes, had to be kept immaculate, and there was no way she was ever going to care that she tracked that litter all across the floor when she emerged from the secret place of her boudoir, head held high like the queen she was.
Inside that little head of hers, she believed that she was a human, a superior species even greater than the one who took care of her needs, and probably she was right.
Whenever I sat on the sofa to settle back and watch television, she parked herself in the opposite corner of the sofa and sat like me, legs stretched out in front of her, back against the sofa, one arm on the sofa arm - in her case, one front leg on the sofa arm - and the other resting on her belly (she didn't copy me there, I'd never do that), and she watched television right along with me. Just like she was a woman. Can you believe that?
What was she thinking?
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